A Portrait of the Potions Master
by Daphne Dunham
Summary: Growing up is never easy - especially when your mother is in Azkaban, your father is a Death Eater, and James Potter won't stop bullying you. A glimpse into the childhood Severus Snape might have had. Complete.
1. Prologue: A Snape is Born

Pre-fic A/N: Clearly, everything belongs to JKR and I'm just borrowing with good intentions, etc. (a.k.a -- please don't sue me!). Also, special thanks to everyone who has made this story possible, including my Sugar Quill beta-reader/moral support-giver, Ozma; my best friend, Jenna, who has somehow tolerated listening to me babble about this story since its inception; and Deedee, whose encouragement and illustrations (see my website!) rock. Please note that this story is Rated R for language, violence, and some sexual situations. Please don't read it if you think you might be offended! Otherwise, I do hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Prologue: A Snape is Born

* * *

"Severus," Darius Snape murmured thoughtfully as he looked down upon the infant suckling at his wife's breast. "Stern, severe, uncompromising. A fine name for a Snape. A name to embody all that we are – all that he will grow up to be. And do."

A quizzical expression on her face, Circe looked up at her husband. "All that he will do?" she questioned, her heart skipping a beat at his vague but threatening call for action.

Darius looked at her and nodded with self-assurance. "Of course, love," he replied with that cruel smirk of his. "I'm going to teach him everything I know. He's got to defend the family name, after all. Take pride in being a member of one of the few Pureblood families left. He'll be valuable to The Cause someday, I'm sure. Tom will be most pleased."

Circe was silent a moment. "Perhaps he won't like your politics, Darius," she said softly, hesitantly.

Darius looked down at her sharply, his dark hair swishing about his ears and a displeased glimmer in his black eyes. "They were your politics, too, not so long ago," he reminded her in a menacing tone. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll make them your politics again."

Circe didn't need reminding, though; the events of her past were fresh enough in her memory. She'd been very popular at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and she used her status as a Pureblood to her every advantage. As a child, she and her Slytherin friends had played tricks on Mudbloods at the school constantly – sabotaging their potions in class, hexing their textbooks so they read backwards, and the like. She particularly remembered how she and her cousin Olive Hornby had mercilessly teased Myrtle Hodges, an especially sorrowful-looking Muggle-born with the most hideous glasses she'd ever seen; Myrtle had died mysteriously soon afterwards, and even then, Circe hadn't felt the slightest bit of remorse for her cruelty.

She'd met Darius Snape at Hogwarts. He and his best friend, Tom Riddle, had been interested in politics at the time. They were conservative, pro-Pureblood, brilliant, and had their eyes set on the Ministry of Magic. After Hogwarts, though, their plans had changed: Tom had gone abroad, and Darius and she had been married. Circe's family had been thrilled with the match, as with Darius' name came all the manner of respect and wealth that she was expected to marry into. After all, Circe was a Lestrange as well as the namesake and distant niece of one of the greatest sorceresses of all time. Consequentially, she owed it to her family to marry well.

It didn't take long for Darius to start to rise through the Ministry ranks. He was too talented and too ruthless a wizard not to. He was a respected man: Assistant Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, and as a politician's wife, Circe knew she was expected to be loyal to her husband as well as his career. It was difficult to be supportive, though, when Darius started receiving strange letters from abroad – letters from Tom – Voldemort, as he preferred to be called. Suddenly, Darius was talking about something called The Cause. He had grown increasingly irritable, withdrawn. He spent countless hours in his study, reviewing what he said was politics, but she knew was really Dark Arts, and plotting. He refused to tell her what exactly Voldemort was planning, but she knew it involved radical actions to purify the wizarding world – things like denying Mudbloods admission to Hogwarts and raiding Muggle villages. Needless to say, their schemes would _not_ be approved by the Ministry, and consequentially, Circe was tentative in her support of her husband's activities.

And then Severus was born – Severus Ewan Snape, to be precise. Circe had wanted to have a child for years to no avail, and becoming a mother had changed her somehow. Made her softer, more tolerant, more gentle. The moment he was born, she'd fallen madly in love with her dark-eyed, soft-skinned son, and suddenly she didn't care so much about the natural superiority of Purebloods; she didn't care about The Cause; and she certainly did _not_ care to see Darius use Dark Arts. She only wanted what was best for Severus, and as Darius seemed increasingly driven by his anti-Muggle mania, she wasn't so sure anymore that he and his political agenda were part of that equation.

It terrified her to think of Darius poisoning her innocent son with his hatred and affinity for Dark Arts, and every time her husband alluded to teaching Severus – to grooming Severus – to follow in his footsteps, Circe grew increasingly uneasy. She secretly vowed not to give Darius any more children to corrupt, and she even half-hoped that Severus would be a Squib so Darius couldn't teach him, but she strongly suspected he wouldn't be – not if his heritage had anything to do with it.

Circe nodded sadly at Darius' threat and turned back to the infant in her arms. She caressed his pale, plump cheek, and as she looked into the glittering dark eyes of the beautiful little child – her beautiful little Severus – she knew she'd give up anything to protect him. If need be, she'd give her life to shield her tiny son from harm, from evil, from his own father.


	2. The Book of Wikked Wizards

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 1: The Book of Wikked Wizards

* * *

"Have you nearly finished your Latin, Severus?" Circe Snape asked.

Severus looked up from his seat at his father's mahogany desk to find his mother watching him. Her smile was kind but perpetually sad, and she peered over her son's shoulder and onto the parchment upon which he was feverishly scratching. Severus drew back and let his mother critique his work. His handwriting was tiny and cramped, and Circe had to squint to read it.

"No, sweetheart, you've conjugated that verb wrong – it's_ vidi_," she told him gently as she scanned the work she had assigned him.

The boy frowned as Circe placed the parchment back on the desk before him. Much to his dismay, she'd had him studying all afternoon, and despite his aptitude for Latin, he would have preferred to play with his Junior Wizard's Potions Kit. It had been a gift from Grandma Lestrange for his seventh birthday last week, and he'd used it so much that he was almost out of asphodel already.

"_Erasi_," Circe murmured, tapping her wand to the parchment. Instantly, Severus' tiny letters vanished from the parchment, his mistake effaced. "Now, fix it before your father comes home, and then you can go play with your potions kit – I know you're aching to."

"Can I?" Severus asked anxiously, seizing his quill and ink bottle with renewed frenzy. He looked up at his mother and grinned appreciatively.

Circe nodded as she smoothed his hair tenderly and traced the outline of his cheek affectionately with her fingertips. "As long as you promise not to test out your new concoctions on Zoe," she replied. "She's still recovering from your Shrinking Solution, you know."

Severus blushed, but Circe only chuckled. Just yesterday, Severus and Jane Swizzle, one of the neighborhood children, had been playing with the potions kit, and Zoe, the Snape house-elf, had dutifully volunteered to be a test subject for their creation. The children hadn't known that their Shrinking Solution only worked properly on animals and inanimate objects. Severus's father, Darius, had been furious when he'd come home from work at the Ministry of Magic to find that his house-elf had a head the size of a Quidditch Snitch. He'd threatened to take the kit away, but in the end, Circe had been able to set Zoe's head right again with an Engorgement Charm, and Darius had forgotten all about it.

"I promise, Mum," Severus quickly vowed, dipping the quill in the ink bottle anxiously and setting to fix his Latin verb conjugations.

* * *

Darius Snape was in a foul mood when he came home, which was typical. He just hung his cloak by the door and skulked away to his study until suppertime. It was probably just as well that he secluded himself. After all, Severus had to admit he was rather afraid of his father, and as he had noted on several occasions, his mother seemed to share this sentiment. Indeed, there was an intimidating presence about Darius – an air of superiority and command. He was very stern, and barring the cruel way his lips would curl back over his teeth when he was berating Zoe or shouting at Circe, Severus didn't think he'd ever seen his father smile.

They ate their supper in a weighty silence, a silence that was broken only when Darius, finding his plate not hot enough for his liking, raised his wand menacingly in Zoe's direction.

"Miserable wretch!" he roared at her from under his sheath of shoulder-length, black hair. "Sorry excuse for a house-elf! I should've given you clothes ages ago!"

"Yes, Master Snape," wept the house-elf as she attempted to recover from Cruciatus-induced convulsions. "Zoe is so sorry, sir. Zoe promises it will never happen again."

Severus watched, wide-eyed, as a woebegone Zoe left the dining room, whimpering and twitching sporadically from her punishment. He couldn't say he particularly cared for the elf, but he pitied anyone forced to suffer the wrath of Darius Snape.

"Darius, you know I don't like you using the Unforgivables in front of Severus," Circe scolded gently from her seat at the table once Zoe was gone.

Darius swiftly turned his hooked nose towards his wife. "Silence!" he hissed, hurling his goblet across the room so it shattered against the opposite wall.

At that, Circe recoiled with a start and fell suddenly mute.

"I don't recall asking you for your opinions," Darius sneered.

There was a pregnant pause, in which Darius glared at his wife with such ferocity that Severus could have sworn he'd seen the fires of Hades burning in his otherwise black eyes. Although silent, Circe held his eye in tacit challenge. She was attempting to be brave, Severus noted as he held his breath anxiously, but her quaking hands revealed it was mere bravado. Only when Darius turned back to his meal with a scowl did the tension between them subside. Nonetheless, an ominous silence once again pervaded the room, and Severus was quite grateful to be excused from the table that night.

After supper, Severus escaped to his favourite hideaway in the Snape residence: the window seat in the corner of the living room. As he was a rather small boy, he was able to sit on the ledge by the window completely hidden with the aid of the drapery. It was one of the few windows of the house that hadn't been smashed at some point in one of Darius' rampages, and consequentially, Severus felt safe there: it was a sanctuary, one of the rare crannies that his father hadn't managed to penetrate with his malice.

He liked to read here – and he did so frequently. In fact, Severus was already quite a proficient reader and, aside from the volumes in Darius' library, there was little in the house he hadn't attempted to peruse. Circe hadn't liked him to explore his father's collection, but Severus couldn't help it: when he came across _The Book of Wikked Wizards_ by Geoffrey Jankyn, he simply couldn't resist. The mere title was intriguing, and he'd seized it, half-expecting to see his father's name among the series of biographies and stories about the most terrible wizards of all time.

And so, Severus folded his legs and propped the volume of his latest literary excursion in his lap. He'd managed to read up to the entry on a sorcerer called Comus when the drape shielding him from the darkness of the Snape house was suddenly withdrawn. He was startled to find Circe, the only one who knew of his hiding place, standing before him.

"Reading again, Severus?" she observed with a fond maternal smile as she peered around the drapery at him.

As he was a boy of very few words, Severus only nodded. Circe leaned closer, peering over his shoulder to see what book it was that her son found so engrossing. Her eyes widened as she saw the title printed on the binding, and with a frown, she took the volume from his hands to confirm her suspicions. Indeed, Severus had been reading from the catalog of Dark wizards that Darius had made into his book of rules to live by long ago.

"Where did you get this, Severus?" she asked softly but sternly.

"It's Darius'," he replied guiltily, although he didn't know what, exactly, he should be feeling guilty about. After all, Circe was perpetually encouraging his avid interest in reading.

"Kindly stay out of your father's library, Severus," she said gently, Banishing the book with a swift wave of her wand.

"Yes, Mummy," he replied rather sheepishly. It was very rare when Circe scolded him, but whenever she did – however gently it was always done – the effect was far greater than Darius's more harsh reprimands.

"Now," she said, the soft smile returning to her lips, revealing that her anger with him was short lived, "I do believe it is well past a certain little wizard's bedtime."

* * *

"Mummy! Nooooooo!" Severus screeched, thrashing wildly.

He was having a nightmare again: a violent one in which Darius, his face contorted in rage, was torturing his mother with the Cruciatus Curse. Such nightmares were not a rarity for the child, and he frequently found himself awakened in the middle night by his own cries of terror, his nightshirt soaked in sweat and his blankets strangling his arms and legs.

"Severus! Sweetheart, wake up!"

When the boy finally managed to jerk his eyes open, he saw Circe Snape sitting on the edge of his bed, gently shaking his shoulders to force him from his sleep. He choked on another sob as it occurred to him that she was safe, that his father hadn't hurt her – hadn't hurt her tonight, anyway – and that the concern in her great, azure eyes was for him alone.

"Oh, Severus," Circe murmured comfortingly as she scooped him into her arms and enfolded him in her sympathetic embrace. "It was a dream, love," she assured him as she held him close to her and stroked his back affectionately. "Just a dream."

Having calmed at last, Severus lay back down and watched his mother as she tenderly tucked the blankets around him once again. It was evident, he thought, that she had once been beautiful. The old photographs that lingered around the house and in albums testified to this fact. Severus had seen the photographs, of course. As a result, he was well aware of how, in the days before she'd married Darius Snape, Circe used to smile in such a way that her eyes twinkled like miniature, cyan stars. He'd noted how her cheekbones were high and elegant and how her golden hair had been soft and shiny. She looked perpetually tired now, her eyes and hair dull, and while her figure remained quite tiny, she was more frail-looking than femininely dainty.

It was rather tragic to juxtapose the two likenesses of Circe Snape, and try as he might, Severus could never reconcile the two. Indeed, he often wondered what made her do it – what made her give in to becoming the bride of the truly Dark wizard who became his father, what compelled her to extinguish the brilliance once imprinted on her glowing skin and charming smile. He wondered, but he knew better than to ask.

"Good night, love," Circe said as she leaned over to kiss him on the forehead.

The memory of his nightmare lingered, however, and he grabbed her hand suddenly as she made to leave the room. "Mummy, don't go," Severus begged her softly.

She stopped short and turned back to her son with a sweet smile. "All right, Severus," she consented in a terrible farce of reluctance. "But just until you fall asleep."

The boy nodded his dark, little head and seemed much relieved as Circe sat beside him on the bed. "I love you, Mummy," Severus whispered.

Circe grinned earnestly. "And I love you, Severus," she told him softly. She ran her fingers tenderly over the round of his cheek and took his hand in hers.

She stayed with Severus until the rhythm of his breathing betrayed that he had fallen back asleep. Circe didn't know, though, that as she stood to leave, her movement caused Severus to stir once more. And she didn't know that when she stooped to kiss his forehead, he felt the dampness on her cheek and realised that she was crying. What's more, she didn't know that when she murmured sadly in his ear, he heard her.

"You're the only good thing in my life, Severus," she had whispered before sniffling and leaving the room.

* * *

Sleep did not claim Severus for long. No more than an hour later, he woke to the sound of voices from downstairs. Loud, angry, voices. And crashing sounds – like glass shattering or furniture being thrown. The boy faltered a moment, his heart pounding, before he tiptoed from bed and towards the top of the stairs to discern what was transpiring.

It was his parents. They were yelling. Again.

It wasn't a surprise to Severus that Circe and Darius were fighting. They were always yelling, it seemed. Circe tried to avoid scenes in front of her young son, but he nearly always heard them – sometimes saw them, too – despite her efforts. He didn't know exactly what they fought about. Sometimes it was a trivial matter – a row over a broken dish or sarcastic comment. More often than not, however, the exchange was more severe. At such times, the word "politics" was tossed around quite a bit, usually interspersed with "Riddle," "Dark," and "Mudblood." Tonight, as Severus quickly discerned from eavesdropping, was a quarrel of the latter variety.

"I'm going to meet him, and you're not going to stop me!" Darius was shouting. "Tom has great plans for the purification of the wizarding world, Circe! And while _you_ may be a blood-traitor, _I_ most certainly am not!"

"Please don't go, Darius," Circe was pleading. "Please! This isn't politics anymore – this is just violence! Have you even thought about what kind of example you're setting for our son?!"

Merlin's beard, they were fighting about _him_, Severus realised. Instantly curious, the boy crept down the stairs to better hear what was being said.

"I won't have Severus growing up exposed to this hatred! He deserves better!" Circe continued.

"My son will be raised in any manner I see fit!" Darius barked.

Having reached the living room, Severus peered inside to watch the scene unfolding within. He saw the overturned ottoman, the smashed vase, the torn draperies. From their portrait over the fireplace, Severus' grandparents, the late Cadmus and Harmonia Snape, were expressing their extreme displeasure with being disturbed, adding to the commotion. But this was only half the horror. Tears stung Severus' eyes as he watched Darius grasp Circe by her shoulders and shake her. He was bearing down upon her, screaming in her face, and she balked and stumbled backward, cowering under her husband's hostile form.

It was then that Circe's eyes turned on Severus: she saw him, eyes wide and watery, half-hidden by the door frame. Their gazes locked, and her expression instantly changed from one of Darius-induced terror to concern for her son – to a silent plea that he not bear witness to his father's cruelty. Darius, unfortunately, followed his wife's glance. A malevolent smile parted his lips as he noted his son's presence in the room and regarded Circe's resulting alarm.

"Come here, Severus," he demanded, his eyes glinting with fury. "Come watch how pathetic your mother is."

"No, Severus!" Circe protested, struggling against her husband with increased vehemence.

His stare still fixed on his parents, Severus started to back away awkwardly, not knowing what to make of the scene and wishing he had just stayed upstairs and minded his own business.

"You leave this room, boy, and she'll get it ten times worse," hissed Darius.

Severus faltered at this, conflicted. He sniffled, wiped the dampness from his cheeks, and felt all the more frustrated. He didn't know what to do – what to think. He wanted to obey his mother, but if he did, Darius would make her suffer; he would hurt her. Severus couldn't allow that to happen – not if he could help it. Reluctantly, he inched forward again, trembling with terror.

"Yes," sneered Darius. "That's it, Severus... A nice Snape family moment."

Darius laughed then, that wickedly amused cackle that never failed to make Severus cringe. From where he huddled, wide-eyed and weeping in the protective shadows of the corner of the room, Severus trembled with a mixture of fury and fear. He hated his father – hated him with every fiber of his seven-year-old being.

"Please, Darius," Circe whispered desperately. "Don't do this... He's just a child!"

But Darius wouldn't listen to his wife's pleas. He just kept yelling incoherently and shaking her violently.

"Don't make him watch this, you sick bastard!" she yelled at her husband.

It was then that Darius swung his arm back. There was the sound of hard fist against soft flesh as he struck Circe across the face. She gasped at the blow, stumbled back from the force of his attack, and fell to the floor with a shriek. Darius towered over her ominously, his wand pointed threateningly in her direction. Circe held a quaking hand to her cheek where he'd hit her and stared back up at him, stunned into sudden silence.

"Watch yourself, witch," Darius hissed, wagging a patronizing finger at her, "or I will make sure you never see your son again."

A sharp and dramatic popping sound pierced the air then, and Darius Disapparated from the room, leaving nothing behind but his broken wife and distraught child. A mighty sob escaped Circe's lips, and she buried her face in her hands, crying so hard her tiny figure shook violently. An apprehensive Severus wiped his tears on the backs of his hands and made his way towards her.

"Mummy?" he whispered, placing his small hand her on the shoulder in a fashion he hoped was comforting.

Circe looked up at him, her eyes puffy and red and a bruise forming on her face where Darius had struck her. Despite her tears, she forced an affectionate smile on her face and reached her arms out for him.

"It's all right, Severus," she cooed, although her voice was wavering slightly with her own emotions. "Darius is gone. He can't hurt us."

A greatly relieved Severus sidled up beside her on the floor, snuggling comfortably against her warm body. He felt safer with Circe's arms protectively around him, and the memory of his father's latest act of cruelty began to fade at once. Circe kissed the top of her son's head and caressed his cheek adoringly.

"Where's Darius going?" he asked softly.

"He has a meeting to go to, love," she replied, smoothing back his short, soft, black hair affectionately.

"What kind of a meeting?"

Circe was quiet a moment. "A political meeting," she said at last. "With a friend... a friend he hasn't seen in a while."

Severus wasn't quite sure exactly what politics were, but he _did_ understand the pain in his mother's voice when she spoke, and he deduced that these politics – whatever they were – were not good. Circe cleared her throat uncomfortably before Severus had the chance to ask another question.

"Severus," she said in a barely audible tone, "how would you like to go away on holiday – just you and me?"

The boy was silent, pondering his mother's question. He was old enough and certainly smart enough to know that Circe didn't really mean that they were going on holiday; she meant they were leaving and never coming back, and he wished she'd be honest with him about it.

"We can go anywhere you want," Circe added, this time more cheerfully. "Perhaps to Grandma and Grandpa Lestrange's – I know how fond you are of Giverny. Or we can go to the sea, to the moors, to another country, if you wish, Severus. Any place you fancy. Would you like that?"

Severus looked up at his mother's hopeful face. He saw the bruise forming on her cheek where Darius had hit her; he saw the years of enduring Darius' malice echoed in the perpetual pain in her eyes. He remembered how cruel Darius had been to her, had been to Zoe, and had been to him. Suddenly, leaving Darius seemed like a remarkably good idea.

And without hesitation, Severus nodded his consent.

The mood pervading the rooms of the Snape residence was quite grave. Consequentially, Severus knew to keep quiet as Circe somberly packed a carpetbag or two with some clothing and a limited amount of personal effects.

He didn't protest when she performed a Memory Charm on Zoe to prevent her from telling Darius of their sudden departure. Nor did Severus say anything as his mother guided him out into the darkened street ten minutes later and hailed the rickety Knight Bus.

Silently, Circe paid for their passage to Diagon Alley. They took a room in the Leaky Cauldron that night, although Severus was so exhausted from the events of the evening that he scarcely remembered having done so. In the morning, Circe took him to Gringotts Bank, where she proceeded to empty a vault of its gold and convert it to Muggle money. She sighed as they walked away from Diagon Alley and through the busy streets of London.

"It's time now, Severus," she said softly as she slipped her hand reassuringly into his. "It's time to go."

And so they went, and they didn't stop until they reached a place called Tuscany.


	3. Tuscan Son

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 2: Tuscan Son

* * *

The cottage was beautiful, a small home set on a hill overlooking the village below. It had once been the servants' quarters of a larger estate, Villa del Fiore, further up the beaten road. However, the Muggle's Second World War had ravaged most of the winery that was the source of the owner's income, forcing the heir to the estate to rent out the small home on the edge of the property, a practice which had stayed with the family since.

Of course, Cottage del Fiore was much smaller than the Snape residence. Downstairs were only a small kitchen, dining room, and living room; upstairs were only two bedrooms, both small but cozy. The cottage made up for its meager size, though, with its rustic appeal – endearing eccentricities like the vines which grew on the east side of the house and the way it was furnished in what looked like dusty but rather exquisite antiques. Indeed, it would have taken an extremely unimaginative individual not to be instantly bewitched by the charms of the cottage.

"La casa e bella, no?" asked the rather round man with the dark mustache who'd shown them the cottage.

Circe nodded. "Si, molto bella, Signore Bianchetti," she replied with a satisfied smile. "Quanto costa?"

The man enumerated a sum, an amount in a Muggle currency that Severus didn't understand. He didn't think Circe did either, as she showed no real reaction to it. Instead, she just paced around the living room once more as though thoughtfully considering the figure. It was clear that she had already made up her mind, though: she was determined to live here, in Cottage del Fiore.

"Quando possiamo... er..." – she hesitated and thumbed anxiously through the English-Italian dictionary in her hand before continuing – "muoversi dentro?"

"Ora," the man replied, his kind eyes twinkling. "Oggi – si gradite, naturalmente."

Circe nodded. She surveyed the house once more with satisfaction and turned to Severus, a twinkle in her cyan eyes that hadn't been there back in England.

"Welcome to our new home, Severus," she told him with a broad smile.

* * *

There was paperwork to be signed, of course – a lease for the rental of Cottage del Fiore. And Circe insisted on buying new linens and cleaning the rooms from top to bottom. But at the end of the day, the Tuscan cottage was theirs, Cottage del Fiore was their home.

It occurred to Severus that they were hiding from Darius – he was too intelligent a child not to realise this, after all, but he had to admit he was rather happy with this new life. If Severus missed anything about his existence in England, it was restricted to the loss of the few friendships he'd forged – his cousins Rodolphus and Rabastan and the little girl from next door, Jane. However, Severus felt quite strongly that the marked heightening in his mother's spirits more than made up for their loss. Although she was constantly watching over their shoulders, looking perhaps for a sign of her estranged husband, Circe seemed much more at peace. She smiled frequently, even laughed from time to time, and a rosy colour had returned to her cheeks – the same colour Severus remembered seeing in photographs of her in her youth.

Life in the Tuscan countryside was quite different from what Severus was used to. They lived their daily lives like Muggles now: dressed like them, talked like them, and even used their electricity rather than magic to aid in performing the less-than-desirable tasks of daily life. After years of listening to Darius criticize the uncouth quirks and mannerisms of Muggles, Severus was inclined to agree: he did not care to perform his Muggle chores of washing dishes and taking out the trash.

But Circe was adamant that they not use magic. She knew that if she used her wand, there was a chance that Darius would be able to trace it and find them – a risk she was not willing to take. Consequentially, she had her wand stowed away in the china cabinet. If both of them were honest, though, not using magic was a small price to pay for the ability to live life free from the tyranny of Darius Snape. Just because magic was forbidden, however, did not mean that all magical arts were. In fact, there was still much that Circe could teach her young son about who he was – things like potions and astronomy, things that were practical in the wizarding world but did not require the use of wands or incantations.

Potions was the easiest thing for Circe to teach Severus. Although Transfiguration had been her specialty, she'd been quite good at Potions during her days at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as well. Indeed, there was much she could do with the subject given just the few items readily available to them, and it didn't take long before she had developed quite an elaborate garden full of traditional herbs as well as more exotic ones. Echinacea. Asphodel. Eyebright. Wormwood. The stores went on. She'd even obtained various crude Muggle instruments such as a mortar and pestle and an old-fashioned iron cauldron to assist her in the education of Severus. Making potions became an obsession with Circe, her only connection back to the wizarding world and her only way to ensure that her son received any sort of practical training in magical arts.

"We may be living as Muggles," Circe had told him with a determined look on her face as she'd helped him grind some dried willow leaves for a medicinal paste. "But my pride refuses to completely deny you your identity, Severus."

Of course, Circe's potions work was more than an interest: it was also a matter of survival for them. Each week, she sold the less exotic potions – the ones that didn't involve unconventional or hard-to-find ingredients like armadillo bile or billywig stings – to Muggles in their marketplace as holistic medicines. They would never grow wealthy from Circe's vending, but it was enough to pay their rent, put food on the table, and provide Severus with a book or two now and then to satisfy his insatiable quest for knowledge.

It wasn't long before Circe became a fixture in the village marketplace. Although she'd become quite skilled at dressing herself like a Muggle, her fair features and broken Italian made her stand out against the swarthy beauty of the indigenous Tuscans. Nonetheless, she developed quite a pleasant reputation among the villagers: Circe was considered eccentric but was widely admired; she was intensely private but perpetually kind. No one knew the terrible secrets of this kind stranger; no one knew that she was really a runaway witch with an intensely vile husband after her.

"Are we better than them?" Severus asked Circe one afternoon.

She was watering some flowers in the garden. He was sitting beside her, intently watching her work, his Latin book in hand. Merlin's beard, it was hot. She longed to have been able to use a Quick Grow Charm instead of toiling over the flowers herself, but that was forbidden.

"Better than whom, love?" she asked softly. She wiped some perspiration from her brow and looked up at her son inquisitively.

"The Muggles," Severus replied simply. "Are we better than them because we have magic?"

"What makes you ask that, love?" Circe asked.

"Darius," Severus said hesitantly. "He told me that we are."

Circe frowned and turned back to her gardening, pondering how to answer the question. _Darius has already had an influence on him_, she thought bitterly. "Not better, darling, just _different_," she said at last.

Severus was quiet then, as though he was processing this thought in his mind, turning it over to see if it suited him. She wasn't sure what he thought of her answer, but it was the best response she could provide.

* * *

Several months passed by in this tranquil manner: Circe took care of her son in her tender, maternal fashion, and Severus would study and help her make the potions that were their livelihood. The hook-nosed boy's violent nightmares had even subsided. Indeed, away from Darius, away from the ominous Snape residence, Severus and Circe were quite content. These days were, as Severus would later ruminate over many a shot of Firewhisky, the only truly happy memories of his childhood, the only times in his youth during which he felt safe and loved.

This contentment, however, was not to last forever. And, indeed, it came to a screeching halt one afternoon towards the end of the summer. The mother and son were just stumbling home from an afternoon in the village open air marketplace when a deep and heartless voice uttered the words that would change their lives forever.

"Thought you'd go on holiday, darling?" asked the voice, which emanated from the darkened living room behind them. The term of endearment had been spat sarcastically, and Circe froze in the foyer of the cottage, not daring to face the man who had spoken, for she would have recognized his cruel and condescending cadence anywhere.

It was none other than Darius Snape.He was here. In the cottage. He'd finally found them.

Severus whirled to face his father with revulsion. He may have been a child, but he wasn't stupid. He knew the consequences of Darius finding them. He knew this meant things would go back to the way they'd been before – Darius hovering over them like an ominous cloud whether or not he was actually there; a bullied Circe constantly on the verge of tears and occasionally nursing a wound awarded to her by her husband's heavy hand; and Severus feeling trapped, his loyalties torn between his two parents. This was a life Severus Snape was loath to return to.

Cackling wickedly, Darius rose from where he was sitting on the sofa in the darkened living room. With his trademark fluid stride, he swept into the cottage foyer where Circe and Severus stood, staring at him in disbelief. He proceeded to grip his wife's arm tightly, his fingers pinching her so tightly the skin around them had turned white.

"Just try to hide now, love," he hissed, his black eyes flickering precariously.

"Darius, you're hurting me," whimpered Circe, avoiding his piercing eyes. She tried to struggle against him, but he refused to let go: his fury only mounted. Circe shrieked and shrank back humbly in anticipation of pain as Darius raised his other arm, poised to strike her.

"Leave her alone!" cried Severus, desperately tugging on his father's raised arm.

Darius turned his infuriated gaze upon his small son. "Let go of my arm, boy," he hissed through clenched teeth. Severus clung to him still, though, too frightened by the rancorous expression coating his father's face to move. Darius shook Severus off his arm with such might that the small boy fell back, down to the floor with an unromantic thud.

"Don't touch him, you monster!" Circe screamed at Darius with a gasp of horror as she watched her son fall. She struggled to rush to Severus, to help him up and comfort him, but Darius' grasp remained firm, and she could not.

"I warned you, witch," hissed Darius, continuing his tirade unaffected. "And now it's time you suffered the consequences... I believe that kidnapping is a crime that could land you in Azkaban, could it not?"

Circe squirmed, flinching at the mention of the name of the notoriously unpleasant wizard prison. "You can't put me there!" she murmured urgently, more as a question or statement of disbelief at Darius' threat than anything else. "I'm the mother of your child! Severus needs me –"

Rising from the floor, Severus scrambled over to the china cabinet in the neighboring room. Purposefully, he riffled through the drawers, searching for his mother's abandoned wand, the wand she had hidden months ago in order to protect them, in order to delay the inevitability of this moment when Darius was finally able to locate their place of hiding. He found the wand lodged in the bottom drawer and picked it up as quickly as possible. A determined scowl on his face, Severus wedged his way between his arguing parents.

He mustered all his anger, all his fear, and all the power his seven-year-old self would allow him, and he aimed Circe's wand at Darius. "_Crucio!_" he shrieked, mimicking the curse he must have heard his father utter against their beleaguered house-elf a hundred times.

Darius' eyes bulged as a bolt of light catapulted from the tip of his wife's wand and hurtled towards him. A child wasn't supposed to even know this curse, let alone be able to perform it, and yet, as Darius collapsed to the floor, howling and writhing in pain as the light overcame him, Severus had done it. Remarkable as it was, a mere seven-year-old with little official magical training had performed one of the Unforgivable Curses.

As Darius attempted to collect his wits again, he regarded his son with an odd fascination – a horror, even – at the realisation of how astonishing it was that his son could perform the Cruciatus Curse, and he gaped as it occurred to him how truly powerful a wizard Severus must have the capability of becoming to possess such powers so young.

"Severus! Where?! Where did you learn how to do that?!" gasped Circe, pulling him close to her and beholding him with a mixture of awe and dismay.

"From him," the boy murmured, extending a finger to implicate the Dark wizard who'd fathered him.

Circe turned a pair of suddenly hardened eyes upon her husband. "Look what you've done to him! Look what he's learned!" she screeched. "This is your fault, Darius! I told you! I warned you!" She turned back to Severus then with maternal concern, embraced him again and kissed his forehead.

"Baby, we don't use that curse," she told him with a sudden softness and tenderness.

Tears overflowed Severus' eyes at seeing his mother's reaction to the curse he had cast. He didn't fully understand the weight of his actions, and yet he suddenly knew that whatever it was he had done, it was loathsome. Circe rocked him like an infant in her arms. "You didn't know, Severus... I know you didn't know... it's all right, my darling... But never again, baby," she whispered desperately. "Never again."

Darius just watched as Circe coddled their son. There was a wicked glint in his eye, an amused and entertained one, and it was quite clear that he construed Severus' use of the Cruciatus Curse as a victory over his wife: he had succeeded so aptly in having corrupted the son whose innocence she'd sacrificed so much to protect. He had won Severus, the boy who was the pawn between them and the symbol of their marital strife.

And Darius Snape was satisfied.

* * *

There would be a trial, of course, for Circe Snape. Darius was only too eager to press charges against her for kidnapping Severus, a crime punishable by a prison sentence. It was the perfect opportunity for him to dispose of Circe's threateningly positive presence in Severus's life, to make sure that she never saw their son again as he had warned months ago the night they had fled England. Consequentially Darius was anxious to use his clout in the Ministry of Magic to ensure a hasty (and biased) hearing for his wife.

It was a public trial, and Darius – in one of his many poor parental judgments – had brought Severus. Severus didn't remember much of the trial, nor did he fully understand the consequences of the day's events, but what he did recall tormented him for the remainder of his days. He remembered the cold stone and the heavy wood and iron which comprised the foreboding courtroom buried deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic. Severus remembered how ashen and terrified Circe's face had been as she was made to sit, chained to a chair in the center of the courtroom.

Severus watched from his seat beside his mother's brother, Marcus Lestrange, as Romulus Malfoy led the proceedings. The latter peered menacingly down upon Circe from the benches of the Wizengamot, his plum-coloured robes contrasting ominously against his white-blonde hair.

"Criminal hearing of the seventeenth of August, 1967," announced Malfoy, his voice slick, "into _alleged_" – he sneered at that part and cast Darius a knowing look – "child abduction offenses committed by one Circe Lestrange Snape of Dolfield, Suffolk.

"Interrogators: Romulus Malfoy, Head Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic; Bartemius Crouch, Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement; and Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock. Court Scribe: Dolores Umbridge. Witness for the prosecution: Darius Snape, Assistant Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and husband of the accused" – Darius shifted smugly at his seat in the Wizengamot benches at the mention of his name – "Witness for the defense: none."

Severus remembered that the interrogators asked a series of questions then, most of which surrounded the time that he and Circe had spent in Tuscany. Severus could tell by the reactions of the Wizengamot that his mother's answers were damning her as she spoke them: there was little Circe could do to deny that she'd taken her son from his home and father, after all. The boy was hopeful, though, as the sage-looking wizard called Dumbledore peered at Circe with surprising gentleness from over the rims of his half-moon spectacles.

"And next, Mrs. Snape," he said softly as he examined a note on the parchment before him, "we come to the issue of the Cruciatus Curse performed against your husband with your wand. Do you accept responsibility for this charge as well?"

Circe nodded weakly. "My husband had hit our son. It was like he had gone mad. I was afraid for our lives," she replied, looking down at her chained hands sadly. "And then Darius came towards me, so I picked up my wand and performed the Cruciatus Curse on him."

Across the courtroom there were echoes of shock and horror at Circe's admission of guilt, and the wizard called Crouch raised his eyebrow suspiciously. "Surely you knew that use of the Cruciatus Curse against a human being is considered Unforgivable, Mrs. Snape?" he asked sharply.

Again, Circe nodded, tears spilling onto her cheeks. "It was all I could think to do to protect my son and myself," she rebutted desperately. But they weren't listening. No one was listening, actually – no one except the wizard called Dumbledore. "It was self defense – I swear it!"

Severus watched the scene, appalled. Despite being under oath, Circe was lying: she'd never cast the Cruciatus Curse at Darius – it had been Severus._ I cast the curse_, the boy thought desperately. _It was me. Tell them it was me, Mum!_ Why was she lying? Severus was frantic, and he stirred anxiously in his seat, yearning to stand up and yell out the truth, but Marcus Lestrange only urged him to hush.

The boy was too young to understand that Circe Snape was lying to protect him. It wasn't until years later when he learned of something called the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Wizardry that Severus realised that his mother had lied under oath for a reason: if the Wizengamot had found out that it had been Severus who had cast the Cruciatus Curse that fateful night in Tuscany, he might have been forbidden from ever gaining formal education in magical arts. The curse had been cast from her wand, and it would therefore be difficult to prove that it had been anyone other than she who had wielded its power. Indeed, it was the perfect lie to protect her son from a bleak future. Only Darius knew the truth, but she knew that he wouldn't protest – it helped his case for locking Circe in Azkaban too much for him to bother.

"So, if I am to understand correctly," interjected Malfoy with annoyance, "you kidnapped your son, hid in a foreign country as Muggles for three months, and when your husband – wrought with concern for his child – was finally able to locate you, you cast the Cruciatus Curse on him?!"

"No... Well, yes, but that's not how it was – not really," she tried to explain frenziedly. "You haven't heard me. I had my reasons. My husband is a Dark wizard! He's an evil man, I'm telling you! And he beat me – and he'll do the same to Severus if you send me away."

There was another peal of disgusted murmurs across the courtroom at Circe's accusation regarding Darius' tendency towards Dark magic. Crouch urged for silence, his voice cutting through the din authoritatively.

"Mrs. Snape, these are serious charges you make against a wizard who is not only a respected employee of the Ministry but your own husband," snapped Crouch. "The court is quite disinclined to listen to your vindictive babble."

Circe looked around her frantically, trying to meet eyes with someone who would believe her, but only Dumbledore beheld her with the slightest bit of sympathy.

"Mrs. Snape, do you have anything more to say in your own defense?" asked the bespectacled wizard gently.

"No," she whispered, lips quivering as though struggling to hold back tears. "I-I... would just like to say that I love my son. Anything I've done – that I've been accused of doing – has been with his best interests in mind."

And with Circe's words, it became apparent that the end of the trial had come at last. Romulus Malfoy cleared his throat authoritatively, and Severus held his breath as the judgment on Circe was passed. "All those who find the defendant innocent of charges?" asked the blonde wizard.

There was a very soft murmur from an overwhelming minority of the Wizengamot – the kindly wizard called Dumbledore among them, Severus noted.

Malfoy's lips parted into a cruel grin as he stared down at the prisoner in the chair of chains. "All those who find the defendant guilty?" he asked.

As to be expected, the response to the latter judgment was devastatingly immense, much to Severus' anguish. Even his uncle, who had remained stoical throughout the trial, seemed distressed at the verdict. Severus stood very still, frozen as he watched the scene.

"Circe Lestrange Snape, you have been found guilty of child abduction and illicit use of an Unforgivable Curse," Malfoy sneered. "You are hereby denied custody of your son, Severus Ewan Snape, and sentenced to –"

Although he knew it entailed a lengthy stay in Azkaban prison, Severus didn't hear what, exactly, Circe's sentence was, for upon the pronouncement the decree, Circe let out a wail, a horrified, terrified moan that sent chills down Severus' spine.

"You don't understand!" she pleaded. "My husband is a Dark wizard! Will no one listen to me?!"

"Mrs. Snape, please contain yourself!" scolded Mr. Crouch.

But it was clear that there would be no calming Circe Snape. She was inconsolable; she had lost everything – her freedom, her son, and her self-respect. She had effectively lost her very life.

"Noooo! Severus!" she wailed. "My son! You don't know what you're doing! Severus!"

Severus stared aghast at his mother as she struggled violently against the chains that bound her. She craned her neck so she could see her son, and when their gazes finally met through the confused bustle of the courtroom, her eyes were crazed and desperate, and tears were streaming down her once-pretty face.

"Come, now, Mrs. Snape, don't make me call the dementors," hissed Romulus Malfoy.

"Severus! Mummy loves you!" she cried desperately. "Mummy will always love you, Severus!"

Whether or not the dementors actually came to take Circe to Azkaban, Severus never knew, as in the next moment, Darius had descended from the Wizengamot benches and had his hand on his son's shoulder. Severus did not look up at his father, though. Instead, his kept his eyes fixed on his mother until her desperate, tear-streaked face and her vehement proclamations of her love for him were burned permanently in his mind.

"Come, Severus," said Darius without emotion. "You don't need to see any more of that nonsense."

Infuriated by his father's cruel apathy, Severus shrugged his father's hand from his shoulder in a violent, jerking motion. Darius gaped as Severus, motivated by an unearthly wrath from within, broke free from the crowded courtroom and fled. The boy heard his father calling him in the distance, but he didn't care, and he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Severus burst through the great wooden door at the entrance of the room. The dim torchlight illuminating his path, he raced through the gloomy corridors, up the eerily winding stairs of the Ministry, and out into the busy streets of London.

And still, Severus Snape ran, his mother's voice echoing in his mind.

* * *

It hadn't taken long for members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to locate Severus and return him to the Snape residence in Dolfield. When the boy finally burst through the front door of the house, he found himself face-to-face with the ominous form of Darius Snape, who was poised to greet him in the foyer and was clearly somewhat less-than-ecstatic about his son's passionate outburst at the Ministry of Magic.

"Thought you'd go on a little jaunt, Severus?" Darius murmured, his voice low and dark and dangerous.

Darius' tone would normally have sparked fear in Severus. Today, however, was different. Instead, he was a boy consumed with rage, and he stood obstinately before his glowering father, his eyes so hot with fury he felt they could burst and his hands clenched into tiny fists of resentment. It was the first time in his life – but not the last – that Severus Snape was quite convinced he could kill someone if given the opportunity and the means.

"I hate you! I hate you!" Severus screamed vehemently at his father. "You made my mummy go away! You took her away!"

Darius wasted no time in winding back his hand to strike his son across the face for being so impertinent. Consequentially, Severus fell back to the floor from the blow, clutching his aching cheek as tears streamed down his face, mixing with snot and blood from his smarting nose. An unsympathetic amusement flickered in Darius' cold, dark eyes at his son's grief. Indeed, as Severus would reflect in years to come, his father took perverse enjoyment in making him suffer.

"Your mummy went away because she doesn't love you," Darius hissed, standing over him sinisterly. "Now stop your foolish sniveling, boy."

Severus' eyes burned with renewed hatred for his father, and in that instant, he resolved not to give Darius the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him in the future; he vowed never to cry again.


	4. At Borgin and Burkes

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 3: At Borgin and Burkes

* * *

It was quieter now with Circe gone. Severus appreciated the lack of constant screaming and cursing in the house, of course, but just because life in Dolfield was quieter did not necessarily mean it was better. In fact, it was downright miserable – intensely more so than it had been prior to Tuscany.

For one thing, Severus missed his mother greatly. There were certain things about her he'd never forget: the way she'd called him her "little wizard" as she lovingly caressed his cheek, the way she'd always known exactly what would bring a smile to his sallow face, and the way she'd carried herself, chin held nobly high. Severus even recalled the choker Circe usually wore – the emerald one that bore the Lestrange family crest – and her subtle but distinct scent, a mixture of soap and French perfume. Such memories were a pitiful substitute, but they were all he had, and so Severus clung to them.

Worse yet was the simple fact that with his mother gone, Severus was left entirely to his father's devices. There was no one to defend the boy now, to shield him from Darius' wrath and to absorb the blows of said wrath when they were delivered – and as to be expected, such blows _were_ indeed delivered. Frequently. It seemed to Severus as though his father had become even more of a tyrant than he remembered. Darius spent much of his time in his study, poring over books and practising the curses that Circe had always protested him performing. He was absent from the household even more now that his wife was not at hand to monitor his behaviour and to accuse him when appropriate. When Darius _was_ home, he acknowledged his son's presence in the cruelest of fashions – always annoyed, always angry, and always commenting on how the boy was constantly underfoot. It would have been more pleasant for Severus if his father had chosen the convenience of ignoring him but, much to his distress, the older Snape did not.

In addition, the Snape residence itself had fallen into quite a state of murkiness in the absence of the lady of the house. Zoe tried to make the dwelling more pleasant, but as she was never a very good house-elf, the home suffered greatly for lack of a feminine presence. This gloom was intensified by the fact that Darius had amassed quite a collection of Dark objects – things that Circe had been loath to allow her husband to indulge in while she'd lived there. Among his prized possessions were the Doomsday Clock, which counted the minutes until the deaths of one's enemies; the Curio of No Return, into which items were placed but apparently never retrieved; and several windows which were now dressed with Draperies of Death, curtains which leaked fast-acting poisons if touched. Indeed, Dark Arts crawled at every corner of the Snape residence.

It was during one of Darius' trademark absences that Severus stumbled upon the latest and most significant addition to his father's collection of Dark items. As Darius was not as patient a tutor as Circe Snape had been, Severus had been determined to take advantage of the quietude to study. During the course of his academic pursuits, the boy ambled into his father's library, searching for a particularly useful astronomy book that he believed would help him to complete a chart he was working on.

Severus ran his fingers over the spines of the books in his father's library. Bound in elaborate leather and labeled in exquisite uncial writing, they were all so ominous sounding. _The Dark Wizard's Guide to Hexes_. _The Unforgivable Curses and How to Use Them_. _A History of Dark Arts_. There was even an untitled book which let out a high-pitched, pain-filled scream when Severus touched its binding. He recoiled at this shrieking book, and in doing so, he inadvertently knocked it from its shelf. The volume tumbled to the floor, screeching abominably the entire time. It was evident that the book was marked with very Dark magic, and as Darius had warned him countless times not to meddle with his Dark artifacts lest he find himself greeting an unusual and untimely demise, Severus hurried to return the book to its shelf.

No sooner did the boy have the book in hand than several pieces of parchment slipped from the back cover and cascaded to his feet. Severus muttered a few annoyed expletives as he hastily gathered the sheets together once again. As he did so, he could not help but notice that the pages were not from the book: they were letters – cryptic ones referring to something called the Order of the Knights of Walpurgis and a pending meeting at Borgin and Burkes. All were signed by someone called Voldemort. Severus eyed them cautiously, curiously, his heart beating increasingly faster in his chest.

"Found something amusing, Severus?" hissed a low and icy voice behind him suddenly.

Startled at the intrusion, Severus dropped the parchment once again and whirled around to see who had spoken.

Darius leered at him in the doorway, his lips curled menacingly over his teeth as he hovered above the boy like an ominous cloud. Severus trembled and stared blankly at his father, not knowing what he could possibly do to explain away the state in which he had been found.

"The rules, Severus, are not made to be broken," Darius said sternly, his voice soft but foreboding. "Do you think you are... above the rules?"

"N-no, sir," whispered Severus, too afraid to manage any more of a response.

Darius stretched out his hand expectantly then, impatiently waiting for his son to pick up the scattered pages and give them back to him. Severus cautiously lowered himself to do so as his father's soulless, black eyes glinted angrily down upon him. The boy had learned the hard way that living with Darius was like living with a dangerous beast of prey – one just waiting to pounce if provoked in the slightest manner, and so he half expected the blow when it came: a swift kick to abdomen that sent him sprawling on the floor.

A beating ensued, one of the worst of Severus' childhood, and afterwards, he lay alone in his bedroom. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain and the humiliation associated with Darius' latest resplendent display of wrath. He pictured his mother's face, smiling at him as she affectionately traced the outline of his cheek and kissed his forehead. He envisioned her healing his wounds and smoothing his hair and telling him that everything would be all right. Severus missed her so greatly he almost convinced himself that if he opened his eyes, she'd be sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, but when he did, he saw nothing but the ugly, dank, darkness of his room.

And he hated it. Severus hated himself for missing her, hated her for not being there. But mostly, he just hated Darius, without whom none of this would have happened. Something had to be done, he resolved, to prevent nights such as these in the future...

Severus Snape had to learn to defend himself.

* * *

It was obvious to Severus that his father was a Dark wizard. He'd heard his mother venomously accuse him of being so too often not to believe it. Darius had never denied it, either, but seemed rather proud of it. Severus wasn't sure he understood what the philosophical differences were between a wizard like his father and a witch like his mother, but he knew that Circe had protested him learning whatever magic Darius favoured.

Necessity, however, dictated that Severus ignore his mother's decree: without Circe there to protect him, he had to learn to defend himself against Darius' cruelty by any means possible. To defeat a Dark wizard, one must learn what it meant to _be_ a Dark wizard, after all, and surely, Severus thought, even Circe would not argue with this logic. Indeed, Severus took to haunting Darius' study in his absence, preparing for the day when he had his own wand to practice the skills contained within the pages of his father's Dark books.

That day came one morning soon after, when Darius Snape coolly informed his son that they would be going to Diagon Alley to get him his first wand. Severus would have liked to have been excited about the occasion, but Darius' decided lack of fanfare and flourish made it difficult. Furthermore, Ollivander's proved less impressive than Severus had expected, and the boy wrinkled his nose with distaste as they stepped inside. Considering the shop had a reputation for being the finest wand purveyor in the country, he could not help but be disappointed in its rather shabby appearance. Dim and dusty, Ollivander's was rather smaller than it looked from the outside. This condition was heightened by the fact that its walls were lined with shelf after shelf of long, narrow boxes – wand boxes, presumably – so many of them that they were stacked to the ceiling.

Ollivander, himself, greeted Severus and Darius as they entered the shop, his moon-like eyes peering at them anxiously and eerily. "Ahhhh, Mr. Snape," he said in an ethereal tone. "I remember you – elm, thirteen inches, Erumpent horn. And your wife had a rather fine birch and haemony..."

Darius looked suddenly murderous at the mention of Circe Snape, and Mr. Ollivander promptly paused, thought better of completing his sentence, and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Er... yes, well, anyway, what can I do for you today?" he asked.

"My son needs his first wand," Darius said without emotion, glancing out the sparsely decorated window with disinterest.

A smile creased Ollivander's warm, wrinkled face as he looked down at Severus, who was staring at him intently with his wide, black eyes and noting the multiple differences between his father and the wandmaker before him. "Of course," Ollivander said kindly, ignoring Darius' coldness. "I was wondering why I hadn't seen young Severus yet."

The old man withdrew a measuring tape from his pocket then, and it immediately leapt into action, appraising Severus' arms, fingers, and all manners of calculations in between. "Interesting," Ollivander said at beholding the measurements. What, exactly, was so intriguing, Severus did not know, but the old man promptly scuttled to the back corner of his store with excitement.

"Now, which hand do you favour, Severus?" he called back as he started rifling through a particularly untidy shelf of merchandise.

"He's ambidextrous," Darius growled before Severus could reply.

"I thought as much," the old man commented, continuing his search purposefully. How Ollivander knew this, Severus was not certain, but he presumed it must have been determined from the results of the rather annoying measuring tape. "Ahhhh, here it is," he said at last, his fingertips resting on a particularly tattered box.

Within moments, Ollivander had returned to the front of the store, back to the curious Severus and bored-looking Darius. In his possession was the bedraggled wand box, which Severus eyed skeptically, not at all pleased that his future wand could possibly be enclosed in such a forlorn-looking container.

"I believe this will do," said Ollivander, his eyes glittering as he removed a surprisingly handsome, dark wand from its less than auspicious box. "Twelve and seven-eighths inches. Firm. Hazel with a core of Diricawl feather," he informed them enthusiastically. "Robust and good for all sorts of magic." The beaming Ollivander handed the wand to Severus then. "There you are, lad. Just give that a flick and see how it works for you."

Severus beheld the wand with awe as he wrapped his fingers around it. He'd been apprehensive of wands since he'd picked up his mother's that dreadful afternoon in Tuscany and cast the Cruciatus Curse at Darius, but it was different with this magnificent rod of hazel. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever felt before: there was a pleasant tingling in his fingers, and he suddenly felt warmth penetrating his being, beginning in his fingertips and trickling down the length of his arms until it reached his torso. Beyond a doubt, this was – despite its dilapidated box and the initial skepticism of the boy in whose hands it now rested – the ideal wand for Severus Snape.

"Perfect," breathed Ollivander, eying the match between wizard and wand with awe. It was a daily occurrence for him to pair wands with their appropriate wizarding mates, and yet each time, he saw a wand find its new owner, he marveled at it as a thing of beauty.

"An exceptionally fine wand for someone who will undoubtedly prove to be an exceptionally fine wizard," he told them as he wrapped the hazel wand back in its box.

Darius, however, appeared somewhat less convinced. Severus was not sure if his father was more skeptical of the wand's quality or of his son's magical talent. Either way, the older Snape smirked doubtfully as he paid an exorbitant amount of Galleons for the wand and impatiently ushered Severus from the shop.

"Pick up your feet, boy," the older Snape hissed, annoyed at the considerably slower pace of his small son's stride as they made their way through Diagon Alley.

A downtrodden Severus obediently struggled to keep up with his father's gait as they turned down a street near Gringotts Bank. He didn't have to ask where they were headed: the sudden dreariness of the street told him exactly where they were. After all, Darius frequented the shops of Knockturn Alley, and as a result, Severus had already been here more times than most wizards had in their entire lives. Consequentially, the boy scarcely seemed intimidated by the sneers of the unsavory witches and wizards walking the street. Nor did he show any consternation at the sight of the shop windows filled with items like poisonous candles and giant spiders. He paused only once to admire a display of shrunken heads but could not linger, as Darius promptly prodded him along with a snarl of annoyance.

It was not Severus' first time at Borgin and Burkes, but as he stepped inside the shop, it quickly became evident that today's was a visit he would not soon forget. Darius abandoned Severus at the door and headed directly towards the man sitting behind the counter – a wizard whose hair formed an equally formidably dark sheath as Darius'.

"Is he here yet?" Darius asked in a secretive whisper.

Mr. Borgin said nothing, but raised a narrow, wart-encrusted index finger in the direction of a small room adjacent to the furthest and darkest corner of the store. Severus didn't quite comprehend their tacit communication, but he understood perfectly what an unwelcome burden he was in the scene, for as Darius nodded and made to walk towards the indicated door, Borgin raised an irritated eyebrow in Severus' direction. "I am _not_ accustomed to playing babysitter," he informed him coldly.

Grumbling some incomprehensible but distinctly inappropriate words of complaint, Darius reached his hand into his pocket and withdrew some money – Severus thought it might have been as much as five Galleons – which he swiftly tossed at Borgin as compensation for the inconvenient presence of his son. Darius turned to the boy then with a sneer, and before disappearing behind the door to which the shopkeeper had motioned, he hissed, "Touch nothing."

As to be expected, Mr. Borgin proceeded to pocket the money. He thanked Darius, but the moment the latter had his back turned, the shopkeeper made a rather obscene gesture at the older Snape's back. He proceeded to glare resentfully at the younger Snape – a glare which was returned with an unappreciative smirk – before he retreated to the solitude of his stockroom.

Unsupervised in the shop, Severus busied himself by looking at the Dark artifacts that surrounded him. It was while Severus was examining something called the Shroud of Dertah that he heard hushed whispers emanating from the nearby far, dark corner of the shop – the corner which housed the door beyond which Darius was holding his apparently highly private caucus. The voices quickly escalated, heightened to the point to which Severus could quite nearly distinguish what was being said, and despite himself, he inched surreptitiously closer to the door to listen better.

"I cannot deny that I am not at all pleased that Dumbledore has been made headmaster," a man was saying. His voice was cold and severe, and his words were borne from a labyrinth of animosity. "Undoubtedly, he'll have a host of students trained in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and that's _not_ something I can afford to have happen – not with all I have planned."

"Romulus Malfoy and I did our best to try to sway the school governors," replied the voice Severus instantly recognised as Darius' cruel cadence. "Bribes, threats, curses, blackmail. Support has just been too strong for Dumbledore since he defeated Grindewald."

"Your best simply wasn't good enough, Snape," was the response, hissed with a sudden venom. "I gave you one task – _one task_ – a trifle, really, and yet apparently, you are so incompetent that you cannot see to it that one feeble old man is stifled! I expected better from you, my old friend."

"My profoundest apologies, my Lord," Darius fumbled.

It was the first and only time Severus ever heard the slightest hint of humility in his father's voice, and instantly, the boy admired whatever man this was who could reduce his formidable father to such a bumbling state.

"I grow weary of your blundering, Snape," came the icy reply. "You know, you're getting to be quite useless to me. Malfoy has even apprised me of your little... er... vocalisations at the Ministry – how outspoken you've been lately. I'm afraid that I cannot afford to have you become a liability for our Cause."

"My Lord, I-I –" Darius stammered, panic mounting in his tone.

"Enough!" the stranger snapped. "Something will have to be done to make up for your... inadequacies... A curse, perhaps – a well-placed one, at that – perhaps a jinx on the Dark Arts teaching position." There was a thoughtful pause followed by a cruel cackle.

The voices dropped again then, and moments later, there was a commotion, the distinct sound of chairs and heavy, virile footsteps scraping against the crude, unfinished wood of the floor. Apparently, Darius' meeting had adjourned. Startled, Severus turned back to the Shroud of Dertah, trying to appear quite absorbed in admiring it, as he heard the door to the secret room of Borgin and Burkes open.

"That shroud, they say, has killed three sultans who were foolish enough to wear it," came a low but crisp tone behind Severus – the same cadence which had held the other end of his father's conversations in the adjacent room.

Severus whirled to find himself face-to-face with a tall man clad in exquisite, sweeping emerald robes. He was very pale, and his grim facial features seemed an echo of one who may have once been a well-groomed, attractive person. But it was those eyes which Severus would remember most clearly: those intense, snakelike slits which probed him to the point where he nearly felt the need to turn away, and yet as much as he wanted to, Severus could not actually bring himself to avert his gaze; he felt captivated – entranced, almost – by that haunting, hypnotic stare.

Severus faltered for a response to the words of this mysterious stranger before him. Finding none, he settled to gape in awe at him instead. This entertained the latter, whose narrow lips creased into a darkly amused smile as he beheld the pallid, skinny boy before him. It wasn't a kind smile, Severus noted, but a cold kind of sneer, one very much like the sort Darius threw in his direction as he delivered punishments or insults or when he cast Unforgivables, and as much as Severus felt entranced by this man's powerful presence, he simultaneously loathed it.

"Tom, this is my son," Darius said coolly, turning his black eyes down on Severus then, glaring at him as though to warn him to be on his best behaviour. "Severus, this is... er... Mr. Riddle, one of my business associates."

Severus froze at the revelation of the identity of this eerie man before him. Tom Riddle. He knew that name. He'd heard it countless times when he'd been younger – Circe Snape had spoken the name with fiery condemnation, yet Darius had mentioned Mr. Riddle with respect – reverence, even. The man had become very much a myth to Severus over the years, and yet here he was in flesh before him, telling him about the Shroud of Dertah.

"I've heard of you, Severus," Mr. Riddle said, turning his eerie eyes and sinister smirk back down to the boy, who promptly shivered. He paused and placed his hand on Severus' shoulder and patted it in a manner that would have seemed affectionate if not for the subtle leering in his eyes. "And I've heard what a clever little boy you are – about how you can already use Unforgivable Curses," he added weightily.

Severus startled at the mention of his use of Unforgivable Curses. He'd heard all such curses by now – one could hardly live with a wizard like Darius Snape without having heard them, after all – but the only time Severus had performed one himself had been the night that Darius had found them in Tuscany. Considering how his mother had assumed the blame for the curse at her trial, Severus had almost convinced himself that perhaps he hadn't used the Cruciatus after all – that perhaps the events of that evening had transpired as she had testified to the Wizengamot, and that he, in a rage-induced hallucination, had merely imagined having done so. Mr. Riddle, however, knew otherwise; he knew the truth – learned it from Darius, undoubtedly, and the delusion under which Severus had been operating since Circe Snape was sent to Azkaban was shattered.

Tom Riddle chuckled with cold amusement at the distress that instantly crept into Severus' face at his allusion to the Cruciatus. He hunched over for a moment, stooped so that his snakelike eyes were on level with those of the boy before him.

"Your father is most impressed with what talents you have, Severus," Tom Riddle explained, his voice soft but perilous and his gaze intense and unwavering. "As am I. Remember that."

Unfortunately for Severus Snape, he always _did_ remember Tom Riddle and the fact that this mesmerizing wizard celebrated his abilities.

* * *

That night, there was another brawl in Dolfield. Darius had once again accused Severus of fouling up one of his beloved artifacts. It was an unsubstantiated indictment, of course, as Severus had been too absorbed in practising minor hexes on Zoe with his new wand to attempt his ritual prowling around Darius' study. Nonetheless, there was no convincing Darius, whom Severus noted had been especially short-tempered following his meeting with Mr. Riddle at Borgin and Burkes.

"Get back here, you worthless little brat!" Darius barked as he chased Severus through the house.

Panting, Severus scrambled away from the thunderous form of his father, grateful for once that he was much smaller and more agile than the older Snape. He darted around a corner and started to clamber up the stairs, attempting to retreat to the safety of his bedroom, when he felt Darius' heavy hand grasp his slender ankle. Severus tripped, slamming hard against the wood of the stairs as Darius dragged him back down the steps he was so anxious to ascend.

"Let go of me!" Severus shouted, struggling against his father.

Severus' efforts to free himself proved ineffectual, however, as within moments, Darius had rendered his small son vulnerable: prone at the bottom of the stairs with a bruise forming on his cheek from the fall. Sparks shot from the end of Darius' ominously extended wand as he stood glowering over the boy. Severus stared back steadfastly at his father, his loathing for the older Snape radiating from his ebony eyes.

"Nowhere to run now, Severus," Darius hissed.

It was then that Severus noticed something lying at his feet, and he shifted his gaze only to notice that his wand – his precious hazel and Diricawl – had slipped from his trouser pocket and scuttled to the floor in the fray. His mind flooded with the memory of all the useful hexes he had come across during his evenings of solitude in Darius' study, and he suddenly yearned to have that wand in hand, to have even the slightest opportunity to protect himself against the inevitably brutal punishment his father was plotting for him.

Darius laughed in wicked amusement as he followed his son's gaze and guessed his intentions. Arrogantly, he kicked the wand across the floor, closer to Severus, setting a challenge literally at his feet.

"Pick up your wand and defend yourself, boy," he dared in a lethal snarl, accentuating every syllable of the challenge with cruelty.

And this time, Severus did.

* * *

Matters continued in much the same fashion until the afternoon that the letter came. Severus had never suspected that he wouldn't get one, but he was thrilled nonetheless when it arrived, for with it came freedom – freedom from the Dolfield, freedom from Darius, and – hopefully – freedom from the head full of bad memories he had between the two.

That pivotal letter was Severus' acceptance to Hogwarts, of course, and he was playing outside by the pond, attempting to stalk the rare and elusive Snidget with Jane Swizzle, the little girl who lived next door, when it arrived.

"Look, it's the post," Jane said, indicating two barn owls soaring in their direction.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious," Severus snorted, not seeing what was so unusual about receiving mail.

Over the years, Jane Swizzle had grown quite used to the sarcastic quips of the boy at her side, and she'd ceased to take them personally some time ago. Instead, she just tossed her mane of dark, wavy hair over her shoulder nonchalantly and diplomatically chose to dismiss his remark.

Both Severus' cynicism and their quest for the Snidget were promptly abandoned, however, as the owls proceeded to deliver the parcels they were carrying – one for each of them – and soar away again without pause. Severus looked down at the envelope in his hands. It was heavier than he'd expected, and he closely examined the elegant script that crossed the parchment.

Mr Severus E Snape

Walking in the Meadow with Jane Swizzle

Dolfield, Suffolk

Severus peered over at Jane's letter and saw that hers bore similar markings. They traded excited glances as they simultaneously turned their respective envelopes over and saw that their parcels were stamped with identical marks: the unmistakable vision of an eagle, snake, lion, and badger entwined around a letter "H."

"Hogwarts," Jane breathed, a warm smile lighting her round, cherubic face and wide, brown eyes.

Hogwarts.


	5. Snivellus

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 4: Snivellus

* * *

The boy was blubbering like an absolute idiot. Tears squeezed out of his eyes and onto his plump, piggy cheeks as he zealously clung to his equally stout mother. "I'll miss you, Mummy!" he bawled, apparently not caring that people all across Platform 9 ¾ were starting to stare.

"There, there, Peter, it won't be long until holiday – you'll see," the round witch was cooing nauseatingly as she smoothed the boy's hair against his head. "And we'll be sure to send some of those mince pies and the lollies you like so much. How's that, love?"

The boy nodded furiously, his eyes brightening a bit at the mention of pies and sweets. His mother babbled on and on, coddling her round son in a fashion that was so humiliatingly childish that had Severus not turned away in disgust, he would have blushed from vicariously experiencing the embarrassment of it all.

There would be no such emotional displays from Severus Snape, of course. He was too excited, too full of hope to be starting at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Even if Severus had felt sentimental about leaving, he knew Darius would never have tolerated a prolonged or tearful farewell; their enmity was much too mutual to allow for a poignant departure, after all. Maybe if he had a mother things would have been different, but this was a moot point, as Circe Snape had spent the last four years in Azkaban prison – a fact which Severus was most anxious for his schoolmates _not_ to find out.

As Severus stood on the platform, waiting to board the scarlet mass of steel and steam that was the Hogwarts Express, however, there was one boy – undoubtedly another First Year – who caught his attention in particular. This boy's appearance was not especially remarkable except that he wore oddly round glasses and had tousled dark hair – hair which he apparently took delight in messing further as he stood with his parents, who were saying their farewells.

"We're so proud of you, James," the boy's slender and well-dressed mother told him with a kind smile.

"We know you'll do just wonderfully – just like your old man," beamed the boy's father, jokingly ruffling his son's already messy hair further.

The three vowed to send frequent owls, and they laughed and hugged and kissed one another on the cheeks, their every motion betraying how kind and close-knit their bond was. Indeed, they were a nice family: charismatic, warm, and affectionate without stooping to the pathetic whining and blubbering of the chubby little boy Severus had seen earlier.

This was the family Severus Snape wished he had, the family that he – like all children – deserved to be a part of. He both admired and envied them their happiness and strength, and for a fleeting moment as he watched them, Severus almost wished he had someone (or at least some_thing_) he would miss, but he quickly dismissed this notion, berated himself for being so weak, and resolved not to degrade himself with such foolish fancies in the future.

Severus looked away quickly and turned grudgingly back to his father, who had not missed an opportunity to indicate that seeing his son off to school this morning was a tremendous inconvenience for him.

"Remember, Severus, a pureblood wizard is the only wizard worth knowing," Darius said tersely. It was the only piece of wisdom the elder Snape cared to dispense upon his son, and he did so cheerlessly. "I don't want to hear about my son associating with Mudbloods," he added threateningly for good measure.

"Yes, sir," Severus grumbled, shifting uncomfortably under his father's heartless gaze and yearning for that happy moment of farewell.

Needless to say, Severus was very grateful when the train lurched away from the platform at precisely 11:00 o'clock. It was a relatively uneventful journey. He and his cousins Rodolphus and Rabastan spent the afternoon pouring over a copy of _Haten's Dictionary of Hexes_. The book had been nicked from Marcus Lestrange's library by the brothers earlier that very morning. It proved to be particularly fascinating and provided the boys with hours of entertainment.

In addition, Rabastan, who would be beginning his second year, regaled them all with stories about the school: he told them about the dim-witted gamekeeper Hagrid (rumor had it he'd been expelled from the school himself some thirty years ago); the cantankerous caretaker Argus Filch (whose oddly intense relationship with his cat was the brunt of many a joke); and the white-haired, spectacled Headmaster Albus Dumbledore (who, in his second year in the position, was already considered one of the most controversial figures in Hogwarts' history). Indeed, by the time the Hogwarts Express had pulled into the station at Hogsmeade, Severus felt he was already quite well acquainted with his new school.

Despite this, it was hard not to be overwhelmed by the magnificence of the castle that housed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was a monolithic Gothic structure which rose beside a placid lake and whose turrets were set against a mountain backdrop. Exclamations of awe and wonderment pealed from the First Years, who huddled anxiously against one another as they gazed upon the castle that would be their home for the next seven years. Severus tried his best to contain his excitement, as he was sure it was only a matter of time before the pastoral perfection of the moment would be shattered, but even he and Rodolphus eventually released a reluctant and simultaneous gasp of wonderment as they stepped into the foyer of the castle to await the greeting of the Deputy Headmistress.

Just as Severus suspected, the moment of pastoral perfection was indeed promptly interrupted as a burst of cheers and applause rang suddenly through the corridor. Severus turned with a jolt and saw that the cause of the commotion was none other than James, the same boy with glasses and tousled dark hair whom he had watched at King's Cross. He was occupying himself most adeptly with a Quidditch Snitch: he would set it free, watch it jolt and zig and zag away, and then promptly catch it again just when it was presumably out of reach. Admittedly, the boy had excellent reflexes, but at the same time, it was clear that he enjoyed a bit too much the amused "ooohs" and "aaahs" and proclamations of admiration from the crowd of spectators that had gathered around him. (Severus noted with disgust that the plump little lad called Peter whom Severus had seen wiping tears from his eyes at Platform 9 ¾ was the most entertained by James' tricks – so greatly so that he appeared disturbingly near to pissing himself with excitement.) Indeed, the boy with the Snitch seemed highly pleased with himself, and a rather smug expression crossed his face.

And Severus Snape hated him instantly.

It wasn't that Severus was jealous of James – although he was. And it wasn't that James treated everyone around him in a condescending fashion – although he did. No, Severus hated this untidy-haired little showoff because he made it quite apparent that he thought he was better than everyone else.

"Wanker," Severus muttered savagely under his breath to Rodolphus. The latter rolled his eyes in disgust to validate his cousin's opinion of the boy with the Snitch. "Look, Rodolphus, some people think that such tricks are something to brag about," hissed Severus loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Instantly, the eyes of every First Year in the foyer simultaneously turned with awe towards Severus, each wide and questioning, anxious to discover the identity of the bold speaker who had dared to criticise the talented bespectacled boy with the Snitch. Severus just held his head high, crossed his arms defiantly about his chest, and cast James an icy glare.

"I'd like to see you do better," replied James, a cocky grin coating his face as testament of his glee in setting forth such a challenge.

Naturally, Severus scoffed at the idea – partly to overcompensate for the fact that he knew he couldn't do better with a Snitch, and partly because his pride had been wounded at the suggestion of his inferiority to this arrogant toerag. "Some of us don't need to resort to brainless games to prove ourselves," he retorted. "Some us can do _real_ magic."

"Real magic? Why don't you prove it then?" a boy in the crowd suddenly sniped.

The collective stare of the First Years now shifted again, this time towards the darkly handsome boy who had joined the debate. But before Severus could make any sort of reply, a girl with shining black hair had instantly seized the opportunity to involve herself as well. Indeed, the scene had escalated to an all-out fray now, the first of many that would ensue over the upcoming years between Severus and the allies of the enigmatic boy with the Snitch.

"I don't recall anyone asking _your_ opinion, Sirius Black," the girl snapped, stepping forward and placing her hands obstinately on her little hips.

"Shut your gob, Bella!" yelled the boy to whom she had been speaking, his eyes filled with loathing for the little girl to whom he bore a distinct and remarkable resemblance.

The girl just wrinkled her nose in snide repugnance. "Don't mind my cousin," she added coolly to Severus while tossing her hair over her shoulder haughtily. "He's a git – an embarrassment to the entire family. His mum and dad can't even stand him. We're all placing bets that he'll be sorted into _Gryffindor_." She spat the house name like it was a naughty word before turning back to Sirius. "True Blacks are _always_ Slytherins," she sneered for his benefit.

Sirius Black's family hated him? This was particularly valuable and fascinating information to Severus, as it would inevitably prove to be excellent fodder with which he could taunt his new enemy in the future. Severus smiled wickedly to himself. _The Black family black sheep_, he thought with perverse satisfaction.

At that moment James, as if anxious to be the center of attention once again, piped in. "Sirius has got a point," he said authoritatively. "I want to see... er..." he looked expectantly at his pallid antagonist, waiting for him to supply his name.

"Severus Snape," the latter growled in response.

"Right. I want to see Snape prove himself," said the boy with the Snitch, waving his hand in a beckoning gesture.

Sirius, however, looked startled. His countenance brightened at the mention of his new foe's name. "Snape? So _you're_ Severus Snape?!" He sneered maliciously then. "I heard your mum was jailbait – a waste of a witch who wouldn't know a Disarming Spell if it ripped the wand from her hand."

Severus paled at Sirius' words, and he trembled with anger. He had been aware that news traveled quickly in the wizarding world, but he had hoped against hope that Circe Snape's Azkaban sentence had been forgotten; it had happened four years ago, after all. Apparently, he had been overly optimistic, a mistake he vowed not to duplicate in the future.

"Don't. Talk. About. My. Mum," Severus hissed in furious staccatos.

Sirius Black only tossed his head back haughtily and laughed in a horribly condescending fashion. "Or you'll do what? Cry? Wipe your big, ugly nose all over me while you snivel? Severus Snape – more like _Snivellus_ Snape."

That did it. Sirius Black had crossed a line. Before being conscious of his decision to do so, Severus had whipped his hand to his robes, pulled out his wand, and wielded it in Sirius' direction.

"_Furnunculus!_" he cried before anyone could say or do anything to stop him.

It was a curse he remembered reading about in one of Darius' books. He hadn't practised it before, and Severus wasn't positive that it would work, but he smiled smugly as he quickly found out the curse was effective after all – very effective, as it so happened. Instantly, boils started to form on Sirius' face, bubbling and pussing grotesquely. Sirius shrieked and brought his hands to his face, but the boils only started to burst and ooze more when he touched them.

"At least my mum loved me – yours can't even _stand_ you," Severus spat triumphantly, already drawing on his newly acquired knowledge about Sirius Black's familial ties.

"Severus Snape, what in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?!" gasped a displeased and authoritative Scottish accent from behind them.

Severus whirled around, his lank, black hair rustling around his ears, to find himself face-to-face with a particularly stern-looking witch whose seriousness was emphasized by the rather tight and conservative knot she kept her dark hair in. By the stunned gasps that reverberated through the crowd of First Years, Severus deduced that the woman before him was none other than the Deputy Headmistress whose presence they were awaiting. He'd been caught red handed. Damn and blast!

"P-Professor McGonagall, I-I..." Severus stammered.

But the Deputy Headmistress wasn't listening; she was rushing to Sirius Black's side instead. "Mr. Potter," she said urgently, turning to James – the boy with messy hair whose antics with the Snitch had precipitated these events, "please escort Mr. Black to the hospital wing this instant! Madam Pomfrey will be able to sort Sirius out."

McGonagall paused and turned her eyes on Severus then, her lips bent into a frown. "Mr. Snape," she said sharply, "are you _trying_ to be expelled from Hogwarts before the school year has even begun?"

"No, Professor," he mumbled, staring at his feet.

"Then why, Mr. Snape, would you _hex_ Mr. Black?" she asked.

Severus was silent. He didn't particularly want to repeat what Sirius had said about his mother; it was too insulting, and repeating it would only worsen the wound. Instead, he just stood scowling at the floor in defiant silence.

"Detention, Mr. Snape," McGonagall said curtly when it became apparent that Severus was refusing to reply. "And five points from whichever house you are sorted into."

* * *

The other students avoided Severus as they filed into the Great Hall moments later – presumably because of the threat of being associated with the boy who had miraculously managed to lose points for his house before even belonging to one. Even Rodolphus was a little wary of his cousin. Indeed, it appeared as though Severus Snape's career at Hogwarts was off to a decidedly less-than-sterling start. If the events of the past ten minutes were to be any indication of what the next seven years within the walls of this castle would bring, Severus thought bitterly, he wasn't so sure that Hogwarts would prove to be the sanctuary he'd once hoped for.

The interior of the castle was equally fascinating and overwhelming to the wide-eyed First Years as the exterior had been. The new students flooded between the tables of the Great Hall to the front of the room, murmuring yet more proclamations of awe at the enchanted ceiling, at the hourglasses which recorded house points, and even at the headmaster who sat authoritatively at the center of the faculty table. Severus recognized the white-haired, spectacled wizard at once, of course, for Dumbledore had been present at the trial that sent Circe Snape to Azkaban. The boy had had four years to ponder the events of that terrible afternoon, and he always half-blamed the spectacled wizard for not protesting the verdict. He'd been convinced that the old man somehow knew the truth, and yet he'd allowed an innocent woman to be imprisoned unjustly.

Consequentially, Severus was loath to pay attention as the headmaster rattled through his start-of-term notices: something about the Dark Forest being off-limits to students and how a new and particularly dangerous tree – something called a Whomping Willow – had been planted on the grounds and should be approached only by students with a burning desire to end their lives. When Dumbledore had finished, he beckoned McGonagall to commence the Sorting Ceremony.

William Avery was called forward first, followed by Bellatrix Black – both of whom were promptly sorted into Slytherin. Severus supposed that Sirius Black should have been next, but as to be expected, McGonagall skipped over the boy, who was presumably still being treated in the infirmary.

"Evans, Lily!" she called instead.

A pretty girl with bright green eyes and long auburn hair stepped forward shyly. She didn't hear a boy with wavy brown hair whom Severus would later come to know as his dormmate, Ian Wilkes, hiss "Mudblood" after her as she passed.

The names continued on and on. Not surprisingly, Slytherin saw the addition of Rodolphus Lestrange. Then Frank Longbottom and the wan Remus Lupin went to Gryffindor, while Ankur Patil and Jane Swizzle were decidedly Ravenclaw. It seemed like forever until Severus heard his name called, and when it finally was, he felt scads of cold and curious stares on him as he sat on the stool and McGonagall placed the tattered hat on his head.

"Hmmmm a Snape... I know your lot," said the Sorting Hat. "An especially fine mind. You'd do well in Ravenclaw."

The Hat hesitated, and Severus' heart skipped a worried beat at the thought of being sorted into anything other Slytherin, as he knew Darius would _not_ be pleased should such transpire, and he feared the consequences of his father's wrath. _Please Slytherin_, Severus willed fiercely, his knuckles growing white as he gripped the stool in anxiety. _Please Slytherin._

"But no..." continued the Hat, much to his relief. "Beside the talent, there's ambition, determination, and resourcefulness. No, not Ravenclaw for you – you are quintessentially... Slytherin!" cried the Sorting Hat gleefully from atop Severus' head.

Severus' reception at the Slytherin table, however, was not particularly warm, as news of how this sallow-skinned First Year had already managed to lose his house five points spread quickly. This iciness of his welcome to the fold was amplified that night in the Slytherin common room, when a much older boy with white-blond hair and shrewd blue eyes approached Severus. The latter recognized his visitor at once: he was Lucius Malfoy, the son of his father's close friend, Romulus. Despite this familiarity, though, Severus could not help but be intimidated by the fact that on Lucius' robes was a silver badge decorated elaborately with the letters "HB."

"Nice work on the Black boy, Snape," Lucius said in his infamously unctuous drawl as he slid into a seat beside Severus. "I bet you know more curses than most Seventh Years do." He paused, and his eyes narrowed threateningly before he continued to speak in a noxious hiss. "Nonetheless, I _don't_ appreciate sniveling little First Years losing _my_ house points before the school year even begins."

"B-but he insulted my mum," Severus protested in his defense.

Lucius Malfoy's lips curled into a darkly amused smile. "Your mum," he mused, his crystalline eyes glinting cruelly. "I know _all_ about your mum. I know plenty about your father, too – things like how he's become a radical and how it's getting harder and harder for him to maintain a convincing façade at the Ministry – a job he never would have gotten if not for my father," Lucius sneered. "By the sound of things, I shouldn't be surprised if he lost his job any day now. It should be... _amusing_... to see what happens to you... you with a sacked father and a blood-traitor convict for a mother."

"Sod off," the younger boy growled, turning on his heel defiantly.

"_Don't_ walk away from me, Snape," the Head Boy snapped, gripping Severus' arm before he managed to take but one step. "You know as well as I do that certain wizarding families are superior to others, and despite being Pureblood, Snapes are in _no_ position to walk away from the Malfoys."

Defeated, Severus hung his head. Lucius was right: there was an order to things in the wizarding world, and even among Purebloods, there were subtle but omnipresent gradations of power. The simple fact of the matter was that despite Darius' ambition, the name Snape never carried the weight of the name Malfoy. This division was reinforced by the truth that it had been largely thanks to Romulus Malfoy's praise and influence that Darius had risen so quickly through Ministry ranks, a debt which the Malfoys were keen not to forget.

Seeing the humbling affect of his words upon the hook-nosed First Year, Lucius chuckled in vile amusement. "As Head Boy, I _insist_ that Slytherin win the House Cup this year, and I will _not_ tolerate a First Year like you mucking it up," he continued in a hiss. "I suggest you learn to control your temper because if there are any repeats of tonight's little incident, Snape, I may be forced to _accidentally_ tell the school even more nasty little secrets about your family. Do you understand?"

Severus mumbled an affirmation of sorts, and Lucius' lip curled over his perfectly white teeth with amusement: he knew he had Severus Snape at that moment; he knew that the boy – like any Slytherin worth his salt – was too proud to endure the humiliation of having a convict for a mother _and_ a father flirting with his own demise. Consequentially, Lucius seized every possible opportunity to remind Severus of the power he held over him, and in exchange for his silence about Darius' trouble at the Ministry, he forced Severus to do his dirty work – less desirable tasks like recopying his notes and cleaning his cauldron – as well as constantly subjected the younger boy to snide remarks and cruel condescension. Needless to say, the torch of debt between the Snapes and Malfoys had been aptly passed from father to son.

* * *

Fortunately for Severus, his classes proved to be more far more enjoyable than his condition as Malfoy's lapdog. The hook-nosed boy woke the next morning to find himself rushing to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class, which was taught by Vindictus Viridian, the head of Slytherin House. He took an immediate interest in the class, which was not surprising considering his constant childhood exposure to the Dark Arts, and he was intrigued to find that there were ways to guard oneself against such wicked magic. Potions, however, proved to be the true highlight of his day. He'd been enthralled with the subject since Circe Snape had taught him his first medicinal draught. In an odd way, studying Potions reminded him of her – it was his way of keeping her with him. That Professor Bicarius Cauderon was utterly fascinating only solidified his interest in the field.

History of Magic was after lunch, and like most students, Severus found Professor Binns' class more a practicum in ennui than anything else. Similarly, Charms class proved to be less than enthralling. Severus never was keen on using his wand – not since that fateful day when he'd picked up Circe Snape's and cast the Cruciatus Curse against his father, and his distaste for wand-waving was only heightened by the events associated with his arrival at Hogwarts the previous evening. Indeed, all Severus had ever seen wand-waving produce was destruction, and he was loath to participate in any magic that involved it.

Severus should have known from the moment he stepped into Transfiguration class that he was doomed. For one thing, the class was shared with the Gryffindors, but most importantly, the subject was taught by the Deputy Headmistress who had dealt Severus his punishment the previous day. As Severus sidled into his seat beside his favourite dormmate, Evan Rosier, he noted that McGonagall, however, was oddly absent from the room. Instead, a tabby cat sat perched on the desk, eyeing them as they filed in.

"Transfiguration is stupid," Severus spat to Evan. "I suppose we'll be doing something ridiculous like turning rodents into water goblets. Seems rather like a waste of time to me. Why not just go _buy_ a bloody water goblet to begin with?!"

As if on cue, the tabby cat sitting on the desk at the front of the room instantly lunged forward. A few of the girls shrieked as the cat suddenly took on more human features. It had transformed into – holy Hecate! – none other than the stern, black-haired figure of Minerva McGonagall. But it wasn't just a _figure_ of McGonagall standing before them – the cat _was_ McGonagall. Although the class didn't know it at the time, this dramatic transformation was the way the professor frequently began her first classes with new students; she felt it inspired interest in the subject. And, indeed, the applause and gasps of awe and admiration that echoed through the classroom indicated that the students were, indeed, most impressed by the subject of Transfiguration.

If McGonagall was an Animagus, though, then she had been in the classroom the entire time the students were taking their seats. And that – Severus realized with sudden panic – meant that she had undoubtedly heard his sneer at Transfiguration. _Merlin's balls_, he thought morosely. _I will never please this woman._

Indeed, McGonagall promptly proceeded to explain what, exactly, the study of Transfiguration entailed as well as the things they'd be learning over the course of the year. "Perhaps, depending on how advanced you prove to be, we may eventually proceed to Transfiguring small animals into water goblets," she concluded tersely, "but that's normally something I save for my Second Years."

Severus thought he saw McGonagall cast a shrewd glance in his direction upon saying this, and consequentially he blushed and sank lower into his seat, mortified.

Unfortunately, the rest of the class did not go much better for Severus Snape. The students spent the remainder of the afternoon attempting to turn a match into a needle. McGonagall assured them it was an easy task, but by the end of the lesson, Severus – much to his frustration – was the only student who had not made the slightest progress. Needless to say, he was most relieved when McGonagall dismissed the class at last.

"Mr. Snape, please stay behind so we can discuss the details of your detention," she added, alluding to the punishment he had earned the night before when he'd hexed Sirius Black.

The statement was intended for his ears only, but of course the entire class heard, and the fact that they heard was hardly a weighty one, as they all knew – and worse, they'd all seen – the events that lead to Severus' punishment.

* * *

In all fairness, the woman _had_ given him the chance to defend himself: she'd asked him why he'd elected to hex Sirius Black – she'd given him the opportunity to apply some sort of logic to his rather rash actions. Severus realized this, but he still took a venomous delight in loathing McGonagall for making him serve detention. It had been his pride which had prevented him from taking the opportunity to speak on his own behalf, to explain that the attack against Black had been provoked.

Or had it been his pride? Perhaps it was his shame – his fear that what Sirius Black had said about his mother had been true. It wasn't, after all, the first time he'd heard disparaging comments about Circe Snape and her time in Azkaban; Darius never missed an opportunity to criticise her. Severus had tried to convince himself that it was merely Darius' enmity for his wife speaking, but Sirius' cruel assessment seemed to validate the essence of everything his father had said about Circe.

Either way, Severus was miserable as he trudged over to McGonagall's office in the Transfiguration Department the next evening to serve his detention. When he arrived, McGonagall was sitting at her desk grading papers written by her Seventh Years on the art and animalism of Animagi. Although still quite stern, she didn't seem as cross as usual as she directed Severus to fulfill his detention duties: he had to hand wash every water goblet in her cabinet – the same water goblets Severus was loath to Transfigure. It was a fitting punishment for him, he thought bitterly, as it confirmed that wise McGonagall had indeed heard the snide comment he'd made to Rosier about the ridiculousness of her class.

"My dear boy, you really are appalling bad at Transfiguration," said McGonagall conversationally from over the rim of her glasses after a while.

Severus shrugged and looked up at his professor as he submerged his fifty-second goblet into the vat of sudsy, lukewarm water she had conjured for him to use.

"It's just a bunch of foolish wand-waving," he said defensively. He did _not_ appreciate being told he was appalling bad at anything – even though he knew he was.

"Foolish wand waving?" McGonagall clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Your mother would be so disappointed," she scolded softly.

Severus raised his eyebrows. "My mum?" he croaked in disbelief. "You knew my mum?"

Much to Severus' instant intrigue, McGonagall gave a small nod of her head. His eyes widened, and he leaned over the desk anxiously. Darius had banished all of Circe Snape's photographs and belongings from the house, and Severus was afraid that all he had left of her – his memory – was fading. But McGonagall knew her – had _known_ her, anyway; McGonagall could remind him of her, could tell him things about her.

"Were you friends with my mum? What was she like?" he asked eagerly.

"I was several years ahead of her, but Circe Lestrange and I were always rivals for top marks in Transfiguration back when we were students," she told him. "Even I have to admit she was really rather better at animal transformations than I was – the things she could turn an ordinary household mouse into! Circe used to write a column for _Transfiguration Today_, you know, and I daresay that had your mum not married, it's entirely possible that _she_'d be the one sitting here teaching you, not myself."

McGonagall's lips creased into something Severus assumed was a grin, but being that he'd never seen her show the slightest bit of levity before, he wasn't completely certain.

"Your mum was a fine witch, Severus, and regardless of how it may seem, she tried to do her best by you," McGonagall added in as tender tone as she could manage. "Don't let certain parties –" she raised her eyebrows knowingly, and Severus had the distinct impression she had somehow found out about and was referring to Sirius Black and how he'd taunted Severus about Circe's time in Azkaban – "try to convince you otherwise."

Severus left McGonagall's office that night feeling much better, comforted by the knowledge that his mother had been a great witch after all – despite Azkaban and Darius and Sirius Black. He had even promised McGonagall that he'd try harder in Transfiguration – he wouldn't want to let Circe Snape down, after all.

Needless to say, Severus' Transfiguration marks were well in hand by Halloween. He still didn't see the point in turning small creatures into goblets, but if his mother had, then that was good enough reason for him. Things were different between himself and Minerva McGonagall from then on, too. He didn't always see eye-to-eye with her and could scarcely say that Transfiguration was his favourite subject, but he had to admit he admired her: she was not especially kind, but she was far from cruel, and she commanded respect without being tyrannical – something which Severus both appreciated and was fascinated by.

Sirius Black and James Potter, however, proved to be greater challenges. A not-so-tacit war had officially started between them. It was battled in the corridors between classes, where they'd exchange curses and insults and nasty glares; it was battled in the classroom, where they'd compete for top marks; and it was battled in the natural enmity between their Houses, an enmity which raged at the Quidditch pitch and in pursuit of the House Cup.

It was a war that defined much of the man that Severus Snape would someday become.


	6. To Quidditch or Not to Quidditch

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 5: To Quidditch or Not to Quidditch

* * *

It was quite possibly one of the most magnificent things Severus Snape had seen to date, and as he stood in the Swizzles' back yard, the summer sun in his eyes, he could not tear his gaze from it. A Comet 220. A racing broom – a racing broom preferred by countless British and Irish Quidditch teams, no less. It wasn't the most illustrious broom, of course – not since the Nimbus 1000 had come out, anyway – but it was a vision of broomstick beauty nonetheless. And it belonged to Jane, a gift from her father in commemoration of her recent twelfth birthday.

"Well, don't just stare at it – have a go if you like, Severus," she giggled upon seeing the way he longingly caressed the sleek, mahogany handle.

Severus nodded anxiously. As Darius preferred to spend his Galleons at Borgin and Burkes rather than on a much-needed broomstick for his son, Severus had been confined to the use of his mother's elderly Silver Arrow. It had been a fine broom once but over the years had become rather sluggish, and it was in desperate need of reconditioning. Consequentially, the hook-nosed boy was more than anxious to sample a newer broom.

Much to his delight, Severus found he was not disappointed by the quality of Jane's Comet 220. He soared through the secluded yard: speeding up, slowing down; taking sharp turns that jolted his bones, taking wide ones that left him slightly dizzy. He looked down on Dolfield from the tops of the trees, the wind whipping his hair across his pallid face, and the breeze whistling in his ears. And as Severus flew, he felt peace: he could almost forget the woes that rested on the ground beneath him – could almost forget the way Darius leered at him or James Potter ridiculed him. Such forgetfulness was ephemeral, of course, but it lingered long enough for him to dart back to the ground and land beside Jane with a grin on his face and a far-off look in his eye. With a slight twinge of regret, Severus relinquished the Comet 220 to its rightful owner once again.

"I haven't much use for it, myself," Jane admitted as they headed back indoors. The sun had begun to settle beyond the horizon, and their stomachs were growling with hunger by now. "I hate to fly – I'm always worried I won't be able to stop."

"Of course you'll be able to stop," Severus said authoritatively. "All Comets come with built-in Horton-Keitch Braking Charms – they're famous for it."

"Doesn't matter – I still get scared," she replied with a shrug.

It was Jane's mother who greeted them when they clambered up the cobblestone walkway and through the back door of the Swizzle residence a few moments later. Though slender, Madeleine Prewett Swizzle was a curvy woman with the same wavy, dark hair and wide, brown eyes that her daughter bore. She smiled warmly when she saw Jane and even more so when she spied the hook-nosed boy who accompanied her.

"Severus Snape, you look like you've been caught in a storm," she teased pleasantly as she reached out to tousle his windswept hair.

Although Madeleine Swizzle did not care to listen to gossip, she could scarcely have avoided hearing about the tragedy of Circe Snape's Azkaban sentence, and she pitied Severus the loss of the mother who had so desperately tried to protect him. Consequentially, there was a sadness in her smile as she smoothed back Severus' hair from his face in a distinctly maternal fashion. Though soft, his shoulder-length black locks were unkempt, shaggy and a bit oily – as though last night's shampoo had not been properly washed from his head. This, however, was just one aspect of the boy's untidy appearance: his clothing was constantly slightly wrinkled, his teeth a bit uneven, and, as Madeleine had disconcertedly noted on more than one occasion, Severus was a little too skinny – undernourished, though not completely emaciated.

It was a pity, Madeleine Swizzle thought, for despite the fact that he'd inherited the classic Snape nose from his father, she had always believed that Severus might have proved a rather handsome little lad. Before being incarcerated, Circe Snape had, after all, always seen to it that her son was well-groomed – that his hair was clean and short and trim and that his clothes were impeccable. By appearances, however, Darius Snape could obviously not bother with his son in the way his wife had. Madeleine was not sure whether it was his father's negligence or the inadequacies of their house-elf that contributed more to Severus' constantly disheveled and forlorn-looking appearance. Either way, though, she wondered how Circe Snape's heart would break if she could see her son now.

It was precisely this thought, Madeleine supposed, that made her want to take Severus in her arms and rock him like her own child. She wanted to trim his hair and darn his clothes, tell him she was proud of him when he succeeded and scold him when his temper got the better of him (which was frequently – not that she could blame him, considering his paternal role model). But she knew Severus wouldn't let her care for him in this fashion – he was too proud, much like his father. However, there was one thing Madeleine Swizzle _could_ do for the misguided, motherless boy that was so subtle he wouldn't protest: she could feed him wholesome meals whenever the opportunity presented itself, and so she instantly seized the opportunity to do so.

"Staying for dinner, Severus?" she asked.

The boy hesitated, looking first as though he was stunned at the invitation and then ashamed, as though he wished not to be a burden.

"I fear I've made a bit too much shepherd's pie," Madeleine added, seeing the conflict within him. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to help unburden us of it?"

It was Madeleine Swizzle's typical method of coaxing the sallow boy into joining her table: assign a sense of duty to the act. He always responded to a sense of duty – it was one of Circe Snape's few lingering imprints still left upon him. Indeed, Severus' eyes widened, and despite his initial reluctance, he nodded his dark head. In truth, Severus couldn't deny that he didn't perpetually crave a well-cooked meal, as Mrs. Swizzle's decidedly were. He didn't eat much at home. Zoe, the Snape house-elf, had proven herself quite inadequate at even the most menial of domestic tasks, and as to be expected, she possessed culinary skills that were disastrous at best. As a result, the promise of shepherd's pie proved too tempting for Severus to resist.

There were hands to be washed, of course, before Severus sidled into a seat beside Jane at the Swizzle's dinner table that night. Aside from school, he couldn't remember having eaten so well since his mother had prepared his meals, and although Madeleine Swizzle could scarcely replace Circe Snape, he quickly decided that she was an acceptable substitute in the matter of mealtimes.

"Do you never eat, Severus?" Madeleine asked with a chuckle as she watched the boy make his way through a set of second helpings. She teased, but to be honest, she was quite pleased to see him indulge his appetite. Nonetheless, a blush promptly stole across Severus' face, and he paused midway through a forkful of mashed potatoes.

"Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite, Maddie," Augustus Swizzle had said pleasantly from his end of the table. He was a robust man with a kindly smile, and he helped himself to a second serving as well before retreating to his study with his pipe and a copy of the _Evening Prophet_.

"Another disappearance," he commented, shaking his head sadly as he referenced the headlines of the newspaper. "A Muggle-born Ministry employee from Kent this time. Extremely odd circumstances, I understand."

There was bread pudding for dessert, though, and consequentially, Severus quickly dismissed Augustus Swizzle's words. In retrospect, it occurred to him that Darius had recently returned from what he termed a "business trip" in Kent. The hook-nosed boy wasn't sure what business the Assistant Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic could possibly have had in Kent, and he dimly wondered if his father's presence there had been a coincidence or not. However, as Madeleine Swizzle set a heaping dish of pudding before him, he scarcely cared.

Belly pleasantly full, Severus trod back home that night feeling quite uncharacteristically content. The Swizzle family had that effect on him, he'd noticed, and although he was certain his satisfaction would dissolve the moment he rested eyes on his father, he enjoyed it while it lasted.

* * *

"I heard she used to be Seeker for Puddlemere United," Will Avery informed the Slytherin table as he slid into his usual seat between Ian Wilkes and Evan Rosier.

"I heard she was a coach for the Montrose Magpies," Rodolphus Lestrange added.

Another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had begun, and much to Severus Snape's relief, there had been no traumatic run-ins with James Potter and Sirius Black to ruin his delight in the start-of-term feast this time. Instead, he was rather enjoying the annual Sorting Ceremony and speculation with his dormmates over the background and qualifications of the plucky new Flying teacher, whom the headmaster had introduced as Rolanda Hooch.

"I'll bet she even knows Hamish McFarlan," chimed in a dark-haired first year beside Rodolphus.

Severus would normally have regarded this particular first year with antipathy, as he was the younger brother of Sirius Black, whom Severus had decided early in his career at Hogwarts was not worth knowing. However, Regulus had proved his worth in Severus' eyes: not only was he sorted decisively into Slytherin, but as the Sorting Hat named him to the house, he had shot a scathing smirk at his Gryffindor brother as though to gloat. Severus had been amused to find that Regulus so clearly bore Sirius animosity, and the two boys tacitly bonded over their common enemy.

Apparently, they were bonded over their seemingly mutual interest in Quidditch as well. Unfortunately, Madam Hooch did not assuage the whispers of curiosity regarding her experience with broomstick sports when Albus Dumbledore bid her to rise and introduce herself to the students.

"I'd like to take this opportunity to announce that tryouts for positions on the house Quidditch teams will be held next week," was all she said on the matter.

Of course, Rolanda Hooch's face hadn't been the only unfamiliar one around the tables of the Great Hall that evening. Aside from the wide-eyed, cherubic faces of the incoming first years, there was a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Indeed, Lilith Hagzissa had apparently assumed the post this summer, when their previous teacher, Vindictus Viridian, reportedly retired to pursue a career in writing. Her stern expression told the students of Slytherin that she would rule their house with the precision and austerity befitting the progeny of the oldest and most venerable families in the wizarding world. Considering this, Severus had the distinct impression that Professor Hagzissa would prove to be one of the few instructors at the school that his father would have unwavering confidence in.

Severus' assessment of this matter was proven correct the very next morning as he settled into his seat beside Evan Rosier for their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Lilith Hagzissa entered the room with a dramatic flair: the click of her high heeled shoes echoing through the suddenly silent classroom and her sharp nose stuck authoritatively high in the air. She never smiled, never looked directly at the students but somehow over their heads when she spoke to them, and she strode through the room as she taught, pacing up and down the aisles between desks.

"Our studies this year will involve a combination of topics, including several Dark creatures. For example, we will begin by learning about Kappas," she informed them decisively, emphasizing and clearly pronouncing each syllable of her words. "We will then proceed to discuss hinkypunks, boggarts, vampires, and – should time permit – werewolves. Defensive spells and strategies will also be covered in conjunction with and in addition to these topics. Assignments will include essays as well as written and practical examinations. Furthermore, you should be advised that I do not tolerate tardiness, speaking out of turn, or lack of preparation for class."

Having made her way back to the front of the classroom, Professor Hagzissa turned sharply on her pointed heel and whirled around to face the classroom again dramatically. "Who can tell me what a Kappa is?" she asked abruptly.

The question caught the entire class off guard, as it was intended to do. The students had not expected to be quizzed on such information on the first day of class, and as a result, blank stares and a weighty silence impregnated the room. When it became apparent that there would be no intelligent reply, Lilith Hagzissa's eyes narrowed into distinctly displeased slits, and she tapped her foot impatiently.

"I was under the impression," she said icily, "that I was teaching some of the brightest young minds in the wizarding world. Evidently I was wrong."

Determined not to be proven anything less than one of the brightest young minds in the wizarding world, Severus heaved his slim arm into the air at once. He had excelled at Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Viridian last year, and in truth, he had already read most of this year's textbook – including the chapter on Kappas. Therefore, when Professor Hagzissa indicated with a curt nod of her head that she wished to hear his reply to her question, he felt quite confident in speaking.

"Kappas are water demons that live in shallow ponds and rivers," Severus said coolly. "They attack human passersby and strangle them so they can feed on their blood."

"Excellent," Professor Hagzissa told him, although her placid facial expression remained unchanged. "Five points to Slytherin."

"Know-it-all," hissed a voice behind Severus suddenly.

The sallow-skinned youth didn't have to turn around to know that it was his least favourite classmate, James Potter, who had spoken those words of ridicule. Indeed, when Severus glanced over his shoulder to make his annoyance known to the spectacled Gryffindor, he found himself face-to-face with James as well as his smirking lackeys.

"Dunderheads," he snarled at them before turning back to Professor Hagzissa, who had continued her lecture.

"And who can tell me what area of the world Kappas are indigenous to?" the professor was now asking.

Just to spite James Potter, Severus raised his hand once again, casting a determined scowl in the direction of his snickering nemeses. As he was once again the only student to dare to venture an answer, Lilith Hagzissa promptly asked for his response. "Asia, although there is speculation whether they originate from Mongolia or Japan," Severus said with self-assurance.

"Well done, Mr. Snape," the teacher replied, her narrow lips curling over her teeth in what the class would learn over time was her rendition of a smile. "Another five points to Slytherin."

It was then that Severus felt it: a peculiar sort of tingling in his ears. It didn't hurt, per se, but it wasn't exactly comfortable, either. However, it wasn't until he heard the choir of giggles rising behind him that the pallid boy realised that something was, indeed, very wrong.

"What's wrong with your ears, mate?" Evan Rosier murmured, staring at him quizzically.

Bringing his hands hurriedly to cup his ears, Severus felt them – the lobes were convulsing, jerking against the side of his head, violently fluttering as though trying to take flight from his body. Severus gasped in panic and stood up, knocking his desk over in the process. His books and parchment littered the floor at his feet, and his black eyes darted around the room, begging for an explanation, begging for assistance.

And assistance promptly arrived. "Mr. Potter! That will be quite enough!" shouted Professor Hagzissa, whose lecture had been interrupted by the fray. She raised her wand and took aim. "_Finite Incantatum!_" she cried.

Severus' ears ceased their annoying spasms at once, and, all eyes upon him, he whirled around to face James Potter, who was seated behind him, wand still raised and aimed in the direction of the hook-nosed Slytherin. James had hexed him – the look of pure amusement on his face at seeing the flush flooding Severus' cheeks was evidence enough to this fact. He looked with horror from James to his cackling cohorts – Sirius Black was clutching his sides, tears leaked from Peter Pettigrew's eyes, and Remus Lupin looked decidedly more animated than usual. Suddenly, all Severus wanted to do was to banish those haughty grins from their faces. That thrill, however, would have to be reserved strictly for Professor Hagzissa.

"A Twitchy Ears Hex, Mr. Potter?" she seethed, crossing the room and pinching James' earlobe firmly in between her fingertips. "I'll make _your_ ears twitch, young man! We'll see how amusing you find your pranks when you're serving detention tonight."

* * *

That detention was filled, as Severus learned, by polishing the school trophy cases. He had been heading back from the library when he saw the familiar tousled hair and round glasses of James Potter. Rag in hand, he was finishing his detention duties. The assignment was a favourite of Argus Filch, who frequently oversaw the administration of discipline to students. As such, the delegation of such a task to the haughty Gryffindor was of no surprise to Severus, but that didn't stop him from taking a vile delight in witnessing the event.

"Bloody, sodding know-it-all," James was grumbling under his breath as he placed the last of the newly sparkling statuettes back inside the glass case.

"Enjoying your detention, Potter?" Severus gloated as he approached. "You know, I think you missed a spot or two."

Startled, James turned swiftly to face Severus. His face hardened and his fists clenched involuntarily when he saw his pallid adversary. "Sod off, Snape," he hissed, brushing past him.

Severus smirked after James as he stalked down the corridor. The scene was rather amusing to him, actually. The arrogant swagger of the spectacled boy had been dampened at last by the sting of punishment. The effect would inevitably prove temporary, of course, but this was a minor detail to Severus. For the first time since their arrival at Hogwarts, James Potter had served detention for his mischief. Perhaps justice did prevail occasionally after all.

Despite how Severus detested anything that passed through the fingers of James Potter, he had to admit that the newly polished trophy display was most impressive. The light from the candles illuminating the room glinted off the statues and plaques, causing the silver and gold touchstones of students' accomplishments to shimmer and glitter tantalizingly. Severus surveyed the contents of the cases in awe. Head Boys. Head Girls. Awards for special service to the school. Quidditch champions.

It was this last category of awards that caught Severus' attention in particular. Perhaps this was because he had thought entirely too much about Madam Hooch's announcement regarding pending Quidditch tryouts; perhaps this was because he could still remember how much it had vexed him to watch James Potter playing with a Snitch their first day of school last year. Either way, when Severus spotted the plaque – the one that commemorated the winners of the 1942 house Quidditch Cup – his eyes widened and his heart throbbed excitedly within his chest. With trembling hands, he removed it from the case and ran his fingertips over the lettering in disbelief.

Slytherin had won that year, as was evident from the house crest and ornate, gold inscription that adorned the head of the tablet. Below this pleased proclamation were the names and positions of those heroic few whose talents had guided the house to victory. Romulus Malfoy, Keeper and Captain. Marcus Lestrange, Seeker. Gaylord Goyle and Brutus Crabbe, Beaters. Claudius Black and Adrianus Flint, Chasers. But it was the last name that caught Severus' attention in particular:

Darius Snape, Chaser

The revelation that his father had not only played Quidditch but played Quidditch on a winning team was a great shock to Severus, and the boy must have read the name over at least ten times before he finally believed it. He had known that his mother had been a prefect. Circe Snape had spoken fondly of her days at school, but no one had ever told Severus about Darius' accomplishments at Hogwarts. In fact, when it came down to it, Severus knew very little about his father: Darius had never volunteered such information, and Severus had never cared enough to ask.

Indeed, the proverbial wheels in Severus' mind were turning at once with the possibilities: if he could make the Slytherin Quidditch team, he could earn his father's respect; if he could make the Slytherin Quidditch team, perhaps Darius would buy him the new broom he so desperately wanted; if he could make the Slytherin Quidditch team, maybe the supercilious smirk would fade from James Potter's face. There seemed infinite potential.

All he needed was a racing broom.

Feeling a resurgence of hope, Severus squared back his shoulders confidently and turned to make his way back to Slytherin House. He hesitated only a moment to look back at the trophy cases and lift his wand in their direction.

"_Dingify!_" he murmured.

At once, an array of dust and smudges appeared across the plaques and medals. It was as though James had never cleaned them. A cruelly amused smile parted Severus' lips. _Oops_, he thought to himself with feigned innocence. _Looks like Potter will just have to clean them again.  
  
_

* * *

_  
_

Despite the simplicity of Severus' plan to join the Quidditch team, there were, of course, certain glitches within it. The most obvious of which was the trifle of a detail that – barring the less-than-auspicious remains of what was once Circe Snape's rather respectable Silver Arrow – Severus did not own a racing broom, and since Severus did not own a quality racing broom, he would have to borrow one from someone who did.

Rodolphus' broom was no better than Severus'. It was one of Rabastan's discards, and as Rabastan was already on the Quidditch team, it was a physical impossibility for Severus to borrow his broom, which was actually quite a nice Cleansweep model. Similar situations repeated with nearly all of Severus' other dormmates and friends: Will Avery had a decent broom, but as he planned on trying out as well, the situation with Rabastan was duplicated. And Evan Rosier simply couldn't be bothered with contemplating the sundry assets of racing brooms, as he had recently become far too occupied with contemplating the sundry assets of the opposite sex instead.

"Whose bubbies do you think are larger – Florence Feather's or Lily Evans'?" he'd ask on a near-daily basis.

"Who cares about Lily Evans? She's a Mudblood," an annoyed Rodolphus would remind him emphatically.

Rosier would only shrug and smirk. "Doesn't matter where bubbies are concerned," he'd reply with a foolish grin.

Furthermore, Ian Wilkes was less than sympathetic to Severus' plight. Like Rosier, he had other interests than Quidditch; unlike Rosier, though, these alternative hobbies were extended more towards the latest sweets at Honeydukes. Besides, even if Wilkes had been willing to lend Severus his broom, it was too sluggish – presumably because of the substantial-sized bottom that perched atop it.

"Anything's got to be better than your mum's Silver Arrow," Wilkes scoffed, tossing his head back in such a way that the excess flesh of his plump cheeks rippled with the motion. The boy, whose parents were quite wealthy, was used to the mentality that there were few problems an appropriate sum of Galleons could not solve. Consequentially, he could not comprehend why Severus was resigned to such an old broom to begin with. "Why don't you just ask your father to buy you a new broom?" he suggested.

"Because I can scarcely get him to buy me new underpants – let alone a new bloody broom," Severus snapped. "And in case you need reminding, the last wanker who mentioned my mum to me ended up with boils all over him for a week."

That wanker was, of course, Sirius Black on their first day of school last year, and it was the younger brother of said enemy who was the last of Severus' allies in possession of a broom. However, as Regulus was a first year, his otherwise magnificent Nimbus 1000 sat unused and useless at the Black residence in Grimmauld Place.

"It's not fair," Severus hissed to Rodolphus as they stood queued outside Potions class one afternoon. "I _have_ to make the Quidditch team."

Indeed, the likelihood of Severus obtaining a broom suitable for Quidditch seemed rather dismal. It was only when the Potions Master, Bicarius Cauderon, assigned their seats for the semester that it occurred to Severus that he _did_ know someone else with a racing broom – someone who had a rather fantastic new Comet 220, in fact – someone who, conveniently, was his Potions partner for the second year in a row.

That someone was Jane Swizzle.

* * *

It was perfectly glorious – the tumbling, the coasting, the freefalling. He'd almost forgotten how smooth the Comet 220 was beneath him, how it responded almost intuitively to his every movement and seemed more an extension of his body than an inanimate object. Nothing like his bedraggled Silver Arrow. In retrospect, Severus wondered why he hadn't thought to ask Jane to borrow her broom to begin with.

"You're sure to make Chaser if you can fly like that at trials, Severus," Jane told him with a smile he as scuttled back down to the ground beside her.

The courtyard was almost deserted in these early morning hours, and Severus had taken advantage of the quietude in order to practise for that afternoon's Quidditch tryouts. Jane had insisted on accompanying him, and although he'd protested her presence, he was secretly glad for the opportunity to flaunt his considerable skill with a broomstick.

"You really think so?" Severus asked. His eyes were wide with adrenaline, and he couldn't help but blush when she nodded her head in response, her dark curls bouncing around her pink cheeks. "Just one more go, all right?"

"No rush, Severus," she replied simply. "Take your time."

That was the thing about Jane: she was so cavalier about most things. It was a refreshing shift in perspective from the intensity that otherwise dictated Severus' life, and it never failed to relax him. Therefore, he found it within himself to actually smile as he took the Comet 220 in hand once more. Just as Severus was lifting his leg to mount the broomstick, however, it suddenly started to jerk violently, bucking and shaking left and right, up and down, to and fro.

"Bloody hell," Severus grumbled, stepping back and beholding the broom with dismay. Immediately, the broom went still once again, staring at him as benignly as it had before. So peculiar was the incident that, for a moment, the sallow-skinned youth thought perhaps he had imagined it. Brow wrinkled with puzzlement, he glanced back at Jane to see her reaction. She was giggling, he was surprised to see.

"Severus, stop fooling around," she chuckled. "You're going to get yourself hurt."

Contrary to Jane's assumption, though, Severus wasn't – as she called it – fooling around with the broom. He had not made it jolt and was unsure what had happened to cause such. Wiping his palms down his robes to dry them, he approached the broom again. He reached his long, narrow fingers towards it, and instantaneously, the Comet 220 gave a mighty lurch once more.

Jane's laughter faded as it became apparent that the broom was not to be mounted. "Let Madam Hooch have a look at the broom," Jane called to him, suddenly somber. "Perhaps something's wrong with it."

But her warning was too late. Severus had somehow managed to sidle onto the Comet 220, and with another wrenching jolt, he was promptly catapulted off once more – into the air and onto the grass, where he landed several paces away with a dull thud and a moan of pain.

"Severus!" Jane gasped, the smile gone from her face instantly as she raced towards the crumpled figure of the hook-nosed boy. The badly behaving broomstick forgotten, she reached her hands out to him, offering to assist him in standing up. "Are you all right?" she asked breathlessly.

A scarlet hue suffused Severus' ordinarily pallid cheeks as he looked up at her. "I'm _fine_," he insisted abruptly, refusing her hand and struggling to his feet with a grimace that betrayed that he was, in fact, quite the opposite.

They heard the laughter then – that sign of remorseless ridicule that Severus Snape had grown all too familiar with last year at school. He whirled around fitfully – almost maniacally, his hair lapping at his ears. Mere paces away, James Potter and Sirius Black emerged from behind a cluster of shrubs. The amused grins on the two Gryffindors' faces revealed that the misconduct of the Comet 220 was undoubtedly the result of some hex cast from their still-extended wands. They stared at Severus, arms folded smugly about their haughty chests.

"Trying out for Quidditch, Snivellus?" sneered James.

"Don't know why you bother," Sirius added. "You'll never be able to see the goal hoops with that nose of yours getting in the way."

"You! You hexed the broom!" Severus hissed through gritted teeth, stomping across the grass towards them.

"Very good, Snape," ridiculed the bespectacled boy. "Although not as clever as when you dirtied the trophy cases after I cleaned them. Filch has me serving two extra detentions for that."

So that's what this was about: Filch hadn't believed James had cleaned the trophy cases that night, and Potter was suffering the consequences. Despite the direness of the situation, Severus could not help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the idea of James having to suffer additional punishment because of him.

"You're so smart, I'm surprised you couldn't recognise a Hurling Hex when you saw one, Snivelly," James continued with a smirk.

"At least he's smart enough not to jinx you right in front of the teacher," Jane intervened, emerging from behind Severus with her Comet 220 in tow.

James turned his stunned eyes towards her, noting her presence for the first time. "Oh look, ickle Snivellus has got himself a little girlfriend now, has he?" he taunted, his lips parting into an amused grin.

"She is _not_ my girlfriend," seethed Severus, his fist clenching instinctively around the wand at his side.

"Is he a good kisser, Jane?" Sirius continued to goad. "Bet he slobbers all over you like a toad."

"Hey, Jane, how do you get all his grease off you?" James added with a smirk.

But Jane ignored him. Instead, she looked anxiously at Severus, whose furiously flushed face revealed that he was ready to burst with rage at any moment. "Don't listen to them, Severus," she pleaded softly. "They're not worth it."

It was too late, though. In an instant, Severus had his wand from his robes and aimed determinedly at the two Gryffindors before him. No sooner had he moved, though, than Sirius had cried "_Expelliarmus!_" The hook-nosed boy's wand flew from his grasp at once, and he stumbled back, struggling to regain his balance from the force of the spell. However, with another flash of light – this time from James' wand – another hex hurtled through the air towards Severus. Green stalks suddenly emerged from either side of his head, growing from inside his ears. They weren't just stalks, though: There was a bulbous, white mass at the genesis of the growths as well – a root of sorts sprouting from Severus' inner ears. Jane paled with recognition as it occurred to her what James had done.

"The Leek Curse!" she gasped.

Indeed, the leeks were growing at an alarming rate, weighing Severus' head down with their bulk. Frowning desperately, Jane reached out to grasp the stalks in attempt to help Severus support the exponentially increasing weight above his shoulders. As they made their way to the hospital wing, a stream of profanity issued forth from Severus' mouth. The vulgarities flowed like water from a fountain as James and Sirius laughed in the background. Not every syllable was distinguishable in the midst of the black-eyed boy's fury, but enough were to make his point.

"Bloody Merlin's – ... Feckin' – ... Sodding – ... Wanking – ... Bogey-eating – ... Hecate – ... House-elf humping – ... Arse holes!"

All the way up to the castle, all the way up to the infirmary.

* * *

Severus didn't watch the Quidditch tryouts that afternoon, let alone participate in them. Madam Pomfrey had managed to halt the growth of the leeks, but it wouldn't be until two days later that they had shriveled enough to be weeded from his ears. Until then, he was restricted to bed rest.

"This is precisely why magic is strictly prohibited between classes," Madam Pomfrey sighed sympathetically as she bustled around the hospital wing in search of her gardening gloves to perform the removal procedure.

It had been painful to harvest the leeks from his ears, of course, but the real pain for Severus was in knowing that while he had overgrown tubers sprouted from either side of his head, James Potter had made the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The spectacled boy was a Chaser, no less – the very position Severus had coveted himself. And to add to the hook-nosed boy's irritation, Gryffindor even met Slytherin for the Quidditch house cup that year.

Severus hadn't been able to bear watching the match, of course, but he heard all about it. He heard how James had been substituting as Seeker that day because Frank Longbottom was recovering from a Conjunctivitis Curse gone wrong during Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Severus heard how the afflicted Longbottom, afraid he wouldn't be able see the Snitch, had switched positions with James. And the hook-nosed boy heard how James had been sitting on his Nimbus 1000 as if he owned the world when he spotted a group of Gryffindor girls staring at him with admiration. Ever the conceited fool Severus had always taken him for, James had reached back to tousle his hair for that windswept look he was so fond of when – as if on cue – the Snitch whizzed by him and right into his open hand.

Gryffindor had won.

It hadn't been a particularly brilliant play, of course. Just dumb luck. As the giddy Gryffindors, clad in their scarlet and gold, had chaired James Potter back to the castle in exaltation, Severus had been despondent.

"There's always next year, mate," Evan Rosier had assured the disillusioned Severus.

But Rosier couldn't understand the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Potter hadn't done anything extraordinary – nothing that merited the praise of which he was the recipient, anyway. It was the most ludicrous thing Severus had ever heard of. Needless to say, Severus Snape never watched Quidditch the same way again.

A/N: Continued extreme gratitude to Ozma, who must add the title of Official Morale Booster to her list of beta-related talents.


	7. Of Dragons and Dungbombs

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 6: Of Dragons and Dungbombs

* * *

Darius had grudgingly signed the permission form. Severus had not expected to gain his father's signature, and he had almost decided not to ask at all. Consequentially, the boy had withdrawn the parchment from his bag countless times on the journey from Platform 9 ¾ to make sure that he hadn't hallucinated – that his father had, indeed, given consent that Severus could attend school trips to Hogsmeade.

Severus was not a complete idiot: he knew that Darius had not granted his permission without reason. The older Snape was not, after all, accustomed to doing anything that he thought might bring his son even the most remote and insignificant of joys. Hogsmeade, however, was different. For one thing, visits to the village were a time-honoured Hogwarts tradition, and Darius had been quite certain that there would be gossip should he not permit Severus to go – gossip that he, as a Ministry official, was most anxious to avoid. Furthermore, the fact remained that Hogsmeade was the only all-wizard settlement in England. Exposing the students to the village and its adherence to wizarding traditions was one of the few school tenets that Darius actually approved of.

Regardless of his father's reasons, Severus felt quite pleased to be walking the High Street of Hogsmeade that afternoon. He'd been here before, of course. Darius had always taken a particular liking to the village and had even contemplated moving here at one point, citing his disgust at mingling with Muggles in their settlements. Walking through the village, he felt quite as though he was dwelling in another era. Its cobbled roads and thatched cottages gave the impression that the place had stood still through time since Hengist of Woodcroft had first set foot there. Indeed, Hogsmeade was quite different from Dolfield, London, or anyplace else Severus had ever seen.

"I wish I'd gotten more Chocolate Frogs," Ian Wilkes was grumbling as the troupe to which Severus belonged was filing out of Honeydukes.

Rolling his eyes with disgust, Severus surveyed Wilkes' pockets, which were brimming with Pepper Imps and Sugar Quills. Judging by the girth of Wilkes' cheeks and waist, the comparatively scrawny boy could not express his sympathies for his friend and instead snapped in reply, "How juvenile to waste all your money on sweets."

Severus, of course, had only purchased a scant bag of Peppermint Toads, and considering the meagerness of his purchase, he felt he was quite qualified to levy such judgment on Wilkes. Despite this, his irritability was attributed primarily to the fact that he was anxious to see the Shrieking Shack, rumoured to be the single most haunted structure in all of the British Isles, before the afternoon's end. The boys had agreed not to so after a brief respite at the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer, and so Severus struggled to be patient as the ensemble made their way back down the street towards the legendary pub.

It was Will Avery who was hit first – a swift blow to his back accompanied by an overwhelming stench which emanated from his robes at the site of the attack. He hissed a few foul words of disgust as a bewildered expression filled his face.

"Merlin's balls, Avery, you stink like shite!" Evan Rosier laughed, his characteristic smirk seeping across his youthfully handsome countenance. "Do you never wash your arse?"

Avery was decidedly not amused at this comment and felt oddly satisfied as in the mere seconds that followed, Rosier himself met a similar fate.

"What the...?" the latter muttered, whirling around in attempt to locate the source of the mysteriously rank pellet.

"Not so funny now, is it?" Avery snapped, fidgeting with his robes.

At that moment, all-out attack on the group commenced. A deluge of little packets soared majestically through the air, hurtling towards them like miniature, odorous Bludgers. It didn't take long for the boys to realise exactly what these fetid missiles were, and their revulsion was even more evident.

"Dungbombs!" Wilkes cried, scrambling to take shelter behind a nearby shrub.

And then Severus spotted the culprits: a group of boys cackling wildly as they sat perched smugly in a tree overhead. There were four of them – a peakish lad with somber eyes; a plump one whose weight Severus was quite sure the branch was loath to support; a dark-haired boy with aristocratic good-looks; and the ringleader, a boy with rather large glasses and disheveled hair.

"Wotcher, Snivellus!" called James Potter smugly as their eyes met.

Severus glowered as he beheld his foe. "I'll get you, Potter!" the hook-nosed boy snarled, withdrawing his wand ferociously in preparation to hex his antagonist.

Just as he did so, however, James hurled yet another Dungbomb. It sliced menacingly through the air, soared over their heads and made its fateful landing on the nearby front window of the Three Broomsticks, cracking the glass and filling the pub with its ghastly stench. A series of horrified stares followed the damage, as each of the boys surveyed the destructive outcome of their skirmish.

"And just what do you boys think you're doing?" a woman's exasperated cadence suddenly demanded behind them.

The voice belonged to the proprietor of the Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosmerta, whose curvy frame loitered disapprovingly in the doorway. A furious flush filled her otherwise lovely face as she beheld the scene with understandable alarm, and upon seeing her, the boys immediately started to scatter. It was too late for Severus, though: he had been standing closest to the pub's entrance, and as a result, he promptly found himself caught in Madam Rosmerta's clutches. The witch gripped Severus' ear, pinching it firmly as she dragged him into the pub.

Under the curious stares of her clientele, Madam Rosmerta led Severus to a dimly lit room behind the counter. Cheerlessly, she conjured a bucket of soapy water and a mop and informed him that as punishment for his antics outdoors, she expected to see her reflection shine on the floor by the end of the hour. Grudgingly, Severus withdrew his wand from his robes to charm the mop into washing the floor itself, but Madam Rosmerta halted him with a disapproving cluck of her tongue.

"Not so fast," she added. "You are to do it the Muggle way."

Severus opened his mouth as though to protest but seeing the raised eyebrow of warning she promptly cast him, thought better of it and settled on a scowl instead. He rubbed his ear where she had pinched him as she left the room to tend bar, and heaving a mighty sigh, he reached out for the mop and began his task, all the while recounting the foul names he'd like to call James Potter at the moment.

"You clean a floor mighty fine, Mr. Snape," Madam Rosmerta said with a reluctant smile when he had finished.

The hook-nosed boy tilted the bucket of wastewater out into the alleyway behind the pub. "I've had a lot of practice," he mumbled, recalling the irony of how McGonagall had assigned him similar menial labour as punishment during his first year at Hogwarts.

"I'll wager you have," Madam Rosmerta chuckled. "I ought to turn you into the headmaster, you know, but no harm done – the window's nothing a little Mending Charm can't fix. So go on, get off with you," she said with a nod towards the door. "Just don't you let me catch you making a trouble around here again."

Severus blushed under the gaze of the pretty proprietor and set off down the High Street in pursuit of his cohorts.

"Turncoats," he spat when he found them at last.

* * *

There would be retaliation, of course. One did not disgrace a Slytherin without suffering the consequences. Indeed, the scores between Gryffindor and Slytherin still needed rectifying following the notorious Hogsmeade Dungbomb debacle. Humiliating James Potter to the degree that he had humiliated seemed only necessary, and Veritaserum was the perfect way to induce said embarrassment. It had been Will Avery's idea, but the general consensus was that it was a brilliant one.

"So one of us bumps into Potter during dinner and dumps the vial in his pumpkin juice –" Avery had explained, his eyes glinting wildly as he relayed what he suspected was quite possibly a divinely inspired revenge plot.

"It only takes a few drops, you nitwit," Severus interjected. "No need to waste an entire vial of Truth Potion on the likes of Potter."

Avery rolled his eyes. He should have known Severus would have his opinions to interject; after all, it was rare that the sallow boy did _not_ make his thoughts abundantly clear – especially when said thoughts awarded him an excuse to bolster his own ego and debase another.

"Fine," Avery consented with a huff. "So one of us spills a few drops on Potter's food, he eats it, and –"

"And within seconds, Potter's spilling all his stupid little secrets for the whole school to hear," Ian Wilkes chimed in, completing his friend's sentence as his plump cheeks swelled with an amused sneer.

The author of the scheme grinned with self-assurance. "Exactly," he replied smugly, quite pleased with the genius of his designs.

"The perfect plan," Rodolphus murmured as though in awe of Avery's mischief-making talents.

"Wicked," Evan Rosier had laughed, his bright teeth flashing mischievously. "Potter won't know what hit him."

Indeed, the plan did seem – as Rodolphus had simply stated – perfect. Among the boys, only Severus was not entirely convinced of the cleverness of Avery's scheme. Arms crossed about his chest, he stood glaring skeptically at them.

"Yes, it's bloody brilliant," he spat sarcastically, his expression sour. Four sets of eyes turned towards him questioningly as he continued to express his reservations to Avery. "Have you given any thought to _who_, exactly, is going to make this potion? You do know that Veritaserum is one of the most difficult potions to brew, don't you? I mean, you don't really think a dunderhead like yourself is up to it, do you?"

Having anticipated his friend's pessimism, Avery had carefully contemplated the details of his proposal prior to presenting them. Consequentially, he had the ideal solution to the very issue Severus had identified. "Actually, that's where you come in, Snape," he informed him coolly. "_You_'re going to make the potion – you're not Cauderon's golden boy for nothing."

Even Severus could not deny that Avery had a point: if any of them was capable of making Veritaserum, it was him. He did not make this admission out of arrogance; it was merely a fact. He had, after all, already brewed a few potions that were O.W.L. level, and Professor Bicarius Cauderon had made it quite clear he believed that if Severus continued to nurture his talent and enthusiasm for the subject, the boy could possibly prove one of the greatest minds in the field of Potions of the age. Severus had not taken Professor Cauderon's praise lightly, and preparing a brew as notoriously complex as Veritaserum was a challenge he simply could not refuse.

With that, the matter was settled. The only problem was that not only were Truth Potions exceedingly difficult to make, but their ingredients were notoriously rare and expensive. Jobberknoll feathers and dried bluebell root were common enough, granted; powdered dragon horn, however, did not come cheap. For weeks, the boys saved every spare Knut, striving towards their goal of purchasing a sample of dragon horn from the apothecary in Hogsmeade.

"Why don't we just nick some from Cauderon's cabinet?" Ian Wilkes had grumbled as he grudgingly plunked a Sickle into the container which had the noble task of bearing their coins.

"Because Snape'll wallop your sorry arse if you give his favourite teacher a hard time," Evan snorted. "How's that for a reason?"

Apparently, it was reason enough for Wilkes, who never mentioned the possibility of thieving anything from Professor Cauderon again. Severus didn't know what Wilkes was complaining about – his parents were quite wealthy, and consequentially, he was never lacking for money. Parting with a Sickle here or there could hardly have been a hardship for him.

Not long after, that beautiful day arrived – that day when the boys, having accumulated the necessary ten Galleons between them – ventured into Hogsmeade to purchase the appropriate quantity of dragon horn.

"I don't see why I have to waste the last Hogsmeade trip of the year going to the bloody apothecary," Wilkes grumbled, dragging his feet as they marched purposefully down the High Street. "Why can't Snape go alone?"

"Shut your gob," Avery snapped, glaring at the pudgy boy. "This is to be our finest hour, and I won't have you mucking it up."

The apothecary at Hogsmeade was a rather small and shabby Tudor-style structure by the Post Office. It was dimly lit, smelled pungent and moldy, and the shelves on the walls were lined with jars of herbs and powders and animal parts eerily floating in multicolored fluids. Wilkes nearly lost the contents of his stomach upon first entering the building, but Severus' eyes widened with wonderment as he struggled to take in his surroundings.

Their purchase made, the boys spent the remainder of the afternoon having a celebratory round of butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. Madam Rosmerta eyed them suspiciously – as she was prone to do since the fated afternoon of the Dungbombs – but was restored to her usual cheer when she saw the boys meant no harm.

"What's that you got there, Snivellus?" sneered Sirius Black, eyeing the parcel Severus was carrying as they made their way back up to the castle that evening. "Not some Dungbombs from Zonko's, I hope."

James Potter laughed first, followed by Peter Pettigrew, who seemed as though he didn't quite understand why he was laughing, and Remus Lupin merely remained his typical shade of sickly grey. Severus' face reddened but he resisted the urge to reply with a scathing invective. It was only a matter of time before Sirius Black would find out exactly what Severus' bag contained. Until then, Severus contented himself with a secret, knowing smile.

* * *

"Why isn't it ready yet?" Wilkes demanded, hovering over Severus' cauldron and beholding its simmering contents skeptically.

"You can't rush potions-making, you dolt," Severus hissed through clenched teeth as he slowly stirred the potion counterclockwise with a Jobberknoll feather. "It's a science – an art. I wouldn't expect you to understand – you can't even make a simple Swelling Solution."

They didn't have much longer to wait, though. Tonight marked the completion of a full moon cycle since the concoction had been started, and the Veritaserum would reach the pinnacle of its potency. Tomorrow morning it would be a fully matured Truth Potion, and James Potter would suffer the consequences of having tangled with Slytherins that afternoon in Hogsmeade.

Everything was perfect: as usual, the Great Hall was bustling with activity as students filed in and took their seats for their evening meal. Even in retrospect, Severus had to admit it was an ideal execution on Evan Rosier's behalf – too easy, almost. Concealing the vial of Truth Potion in his fist, he walked by the Gryffindor table on his way to join Severus and the remaining members of their troupe. He pretended to trip over the hem of Frank Longbottom's robes and in an exaggerated fall, tumbled conveniently into James Potter, spattering a few drops of the Veritaserum concealed in his palm over the latter's dinner plate.

Potter had not appreciated a Slytherin carelessly knocking into him, of course, and there was the expected exchange of glares as Rosier straightened his robes and stood up. After cursing on several body parts of great wizards such as Merlin, Rosier managed to return to the Slytherin table and slip into a seat between Avery and Rodolphus. No one suspected a thing. Transfixed, the Slytherin entourage watched as James Potter returned his attentions to his tainted treacle tart.

"And the show begins," Rosier sneered with a satisfied smirk.

Indeed, within moments of having completed his dessert, James' face turned suddenly uncharacteristically pallid and his eyes expressionless.

"All right there, James?" asked Sirius Black, seeing the marked alteration in his friend's appearance.

"I'm feeling a bit queasy," James replied in a dull monotone. "That steak and kidney pie was terrible."

There was a series of excited glances exchanged at the Slytherin table as James Potter's demeanor betrayed the success of their mission: the Veritaserum was working – Severus' prowess with potions had not failed them. Their moment of glory, their golden opportunity to humiliate James Potter had arrived at last, and they were only too anxious to reap the rewards of their efforts.

"Time to go in for the kill, mates," Avery sneered under his breath, looking entirely too pleased that his plan had proved successful thus far. He turned his attention to their placid prey then, swiveling in his seat to gain a better view of the Gryffindor table. "Hey, Potter," he called, "Tell me something – how old were you when you stopped wetting the bed?"

"Nine," James replied flatly.

Like most other students within earshot of the scene, Rosier could scarcely contain his laughter at this and looked very near to wetting his own pants at the acquisition of this knowledge. Consequentially, it was only in gasps between fits of giggles that he managed to ask James his next damning question. "Potter, what are you most afraid of?"

"Frogs," was the uninhibited response.

"Frogs!" Wilkes gasped in disbelief. "They don't even have teeth! Who's afraid of bloody frogs?!"

Despite Wilkes' jeers, it _did_ seem a rather irrational fear, and a chorus of hysterical giggles immediately erupted from the encroaching circle of meddlesome students who had stopped en route to their appropriate House tables in order to gape and learn what was transpiring. Indeed, the torture of James Potter was going far more splendidly than any of the Slytherin conspirators could have imagined: Potter was utterly malleable, powerless to resist the influence of Severus' Veritaserum. Much to the onlookers' delight, the bespectacled boy's responses were ideally idiotic, and best yet, his lackeys looked positively perplexed, bewildered by their friend's behavior yet unsure how to halt the spectacle.

"Hey, Potter, if you could snog any girl in the school, who would it be?" Severus piped in with a sly grin.

"Lily Evans," he replied in his eerily apathetic drone.

There was a peal of laughter through the crowd. Chuckling, Severus turned and saw Lily herself standing there, a blush rising on her otherwise pretty cheeks. _Serves her right, that filthy Mudblood_, he thought smugly. Perhaps, however, Severus laughed a little too loudly – seemed a bit too interested in James Potter's peculiar behaviour, and the suspicions of the professors sitting in the distance presiding over the room were instantly ignited.

"Mr. Snape, come with me this instant!" called a familiar Scottish inflection.

Severus whirled around to see Professor McGonagall standing commandingly behind him, piercing him with her all-knowing, owl-like gaze. Once again, he'd been caught. Severus stuffed his hands in his pockets and hung his head guiltily as he was vaguely reminded of his arrival at Hogwarts over two years ago, when he'd found himself embroiled in a similar situation. It appeared that wise Minerva McGonagall had a sixth sense when it came to Severus Snape's mischief-making.

* * *

Moments later, Severus found himself sitting in the office of the headmaster. The older wizard's glittering eyes gazed steadily at him, and Severus stared back almost defiantly, his arms crossed about his chest as he anticipated with loathing the lecture he was sure to receive. Severus could not deny that he deserved a punishment, of course, but the fact that said penalty would be dealt to him by Albus Dumbledore – the same Albus Dumbledore he'd long detested for allowing Circe Snape to be sent to Azkaban – caused him increased distress.

"Mr. Snape, you are aware that the use of Veritaserum is strictly regulated by the Ministry of Magic, are you not?" Dumbledore asked with such calm that Severus instantly felt quite unnerved.

Although he was wary to admit it, Severus recalled having read something about the restricted use of Truth Potions somewhere, and so he hesitated before grudgingly nodding his head.

"And if I recall correctly, this is not your first brush with Ministry restrictions, Severus," the headmaster added, peering weightily at him over the rim of his half-moon spectacles.

If possible, the pallor in Severus' cheeks increased, and his black eyes flickered curiously as he struggled to glean the implications of the older wizard's words. "I-I don't know what you mean, sir," he replied.

"As I understand, Severus, you have already proven yourself most adept with the use of at least one of the Unforgivable Curses," Dumbledore explained, raising an eyebrow to convey the existence of a hidden meaning behind his words.

The boy glowered as the significance of these words dawned on him. The headmaster's allusion was proof enough to confirm what he had suspected since childhood when he'd been made to watch Circe Snape's trial: Dumbledore knew the truth of his mother's innocence – he'd known all along that it had been Severus to who had cast the Cruciatus Curse, and yet he'd permitted an innocent woman to be imprisoned, to suffer for a crime she did not commit. Severus leapt to his feet, glaring at the headmaster sharply, his eyes shimmering with a rage usually only reserved for his father or James Potter and his lackeys.

"You knew, didn't you?! You've known all along!" he demanded in a tone that was rather more severe than he had intended. Severus hesitated a moment to see the reaction of the elderly wizard before him. Amazingly, the headmaster did not waver at the harshness of his intonation but allowed him to continue to express his angst. "That day at my mum's trial, you _knew_," Severus hissed. "You knew the truth – that she never put the Cruciatus on my father – you knew it was _me_! And you still let her go to prison. Why? Why didn't you do something to save her?"

Dumbledore nodded slightly and continued to gaze placidly at the young wizard before him. "Indeed, I did suspect the truth, Severus, and I did allow your mother to go to Azkaban," he replied in a tone so casual that Severus thought he might go mad.

The boy's brow furrowed, and if possible, he regarded the headmaster with increased contempt at this apathetic confession, to which the latter merely responded with a pensive sigh before continuing to explain.

"As I'm sure you are aware, your mother was one of my most gifted Transfiguration students when she was in school – her talents rivaled only by Professor McGonagall. As a result, I knew Circe Lestrange quite well through her studies. Fine witch, but for all the Slytherin guile in her lineage, she was a terrible liar. During her trial, I suspected she was not being completely truthful. Though not permissible in court, I probed her mind using a branch of magic called Legilimency. You do know what Legilimency is?"

Dumbledore paused to allow the boy to nod an indignant affirmation. In truth, Severus wasn't entirely certain what this Legilimency was, but he could glean enough of its meaning from context and as a result refused to admit his lacking knowledge.

"However, as I explored your mother's emotions," the headmaster continued, "I not only learned the truth of the events that happened that evening in Tuscany – that it had been you, not her, who had cast the Cruciatus. I also learned that it was her wish to take the blame for you, and this wish was not something I could, in good conscience, deny her."

"But _why_?" Severus asked emphatically. "Why would she give herself up for me? And why would you let her?"

"I would have thought that someone with your exceptional intelligence would have figured it out by now," Dumbledore mused. "Tell me, Severus, have you ever heard of something called the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Wizardry?"

Severus nodded hesitantly. He'd heard Darius casually mention it once or twice in Floo conversations with Romulus Malfoy and other Ministry officials, but the boy did not understand how this decree related to him. With a flick of his wand, however, Dumbledore saw fit to relieve Severus' anxiety. A scroll of parchment soared across the room from a bookshelf by the window and settled on the headmaster's desk. The elderly wizard promptly unrolled the parchment and beckoned to Severus to take it.

"Please read paragraph F, clause three, Severus," he instructed the boy softly.

Severus' eyes wandered over scroll until he had located the designated section. His eyes widened as he perused the decree written in tiny, uncial letters. "Any child having attempted or successfully performed an Unforgivable Curse will be barred from pursuing formal training in magical arts," he read in a barely audible voice.

The headmaster nodded and peered solemnly at the boy, using his probing gaze to mark the significance of the words that would follow. "Your mother sacrificed her freedom so that you could have the opportunity for the education you are now enjoying," Dumbledore said softly. "She willingly took the blame to protect you, to ensure that you had a future."

Severus gaped at the headmaster. He felt very nearly undone. Living with Darius, he had nearly forgotten the encompassing warmth of his mother's affections; he'd nearly forgotten that an individual could be capable of performing such selfless deeds as he was now learning she had done for him. For years he had borne anger and guilt, and for years he had relished in blaming Dumbledore for the cruel departure of Circe Snape, and yet it hadn't been his fault: Dumbledore had made an exception to the rule for him; like his mother, Dumbledore had protected him.

Trembling, Severus collapsed miserably in his chair. "I-I didn't know," he murmured dazedly, staring off vacantly to a dusty corner of the room as he struggled to absorb the magnitude of this epiphany. "I don't deserve to be here."

"You deserve to be here because of your mother's love," the headmaster told him gently. "And a mother's love, Severus, is capable of some of the most profound miracles this world has ever seen. Never underestimate it."

Despite the weight of the conversation to this point, the headmaster did not forget the reason for this meeting – that Severus had illegally brewed and administered Veritaserum to James Potter, and the levying of punishment for this act followed. In the aftermath of Dumbledore's revelation, Severus was, of course, in no emotional condition to protest. There was a letter to be sent home and the matter of ten points from Slytherin for each of the culprits, but much to the relief of the merry antagonists, Dumbledore declined to involve the Ministry. Severus was suspicious that the headmaster had heard about the incident with the Dungbombs in Hogsmeade and as a result was loath to administer as strict a punishment as he otherwise might have. Indeed, from that day forth, Severus found it within him to behold Albus Dumbledore in a new light.


	8. The Eagle and the Serpent

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 7: The Eagle and the Serpent

* * *

As Dumbledore had pointed out, Circe Snape's love may have once been enough to save Severus from the eyes of the law, but it was never very good at saving him from his father's wrath. Indeed, a few days into summer holidays, when Darius received the letter from McGonagall describing Severus' involvement in creating and administering Veritaserum to the Potter boy, he'd been incensed.

"You're lucky Dumbledore's so incompetent he didn't report you to the Ministry!" Darius bellowed. "If word got out, you could have cost me my _job!_"

Severus had known his situation was precarious. His father was a formidable force to reckon with when he behaved himself, let alone when he did not. Nonetheless, he could not help himself from uttering the retort that presently escaped his lips.

"And I can just imagine what a great loss to the Ministry that would be," he murmured sarcastically under his breath.

He may have muttered, but Darius had still heard what he had said. Before Severus could prepare himself for the attack, the older Snape had his wand aimed at his son. His eyes pulsating with rage, he hissed, "You insolent – "

But Darius didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to; the bolt of light that catapulted towards Severus from the tip of his wand spoke volumes enough. A searing pain hit Severus square in the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs with its force. Severus stumbled back, felling a chair behind him, and scrambled out of the house as quickly as he could, Darius' hexes still at his back.

Severus did not escape the Snape residence without the addition of a few more injuries: a cracked and bloodied lip as well as a welt on his forehead. Moodily, he stalked off through the grass, fists clenched and jaw bent as the memory of his latest row with Darius Snape plagued him. He didn't know precisely where he was headed, but as long as he managed to leave his father as far behind him as possible, Severus didn't really care.

When he had found himself at the clearing where he had played when he was much younger, Severus stopped walking at last. There was something soothing about the familiar landscape of pasture and pond, something cathartic about the shade-giving ash trees and wildflowers dotting the bank. It was peaceful here, so close in proximity yet so far away in practice from the Snape residence. Heaving a sigh, he settled himself beneath a particularly robust tree.

"Severus?"

It was a soft voice, a feminine and familiar one, but that didn't stop the hook-nosed boy from being startled when he heard it. "Jane," he whispered, his throat turning suddenly dry when he spied her.

He hadn't noticed her when he sat down, but indeed, Jane Swizzle was sitting nearby on the bank of the pond. There was a book resting in her lap, and her bare feet dangled into the cooling water. She swirled her toes back and forth methodically over the surface of the pond as she stared at Severus, her wide, brown eyes crinkled inquisitively. Severus froze, contemplating how awkward it would appear if he were to turn and leave. He did not, after all, particularly feel like company at a moment like this, and he especially did not care to have Jane see him in his current disheveled state.

Severus didn't have long to debate the matter, though. Jane had seen the anguish that puckered the face of the boy before her – that look that told her that something was very wrong. Promptly, she abandoned her book, rose from her spot on the verdant grass, and made her way toward him. Severus slumped further back into the shadows as she approached, hoping that perhaps she wouldn't notice the overt signs of his latest encounter with Darius. His attempt to sink into the shade proved futile, however, as Jane gasped when she saw the welt on his forehead and the trickle of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Severus, you're a mess," she murmured.

Face flushed with embarrassment, Severus brought a hand defensively to his lip to cover it from her sight. Sighing, Jane pulled his hand away once again.

"Don't do that – you'll make it worse," she told him softly. "Stay here. I know just the thing."

Before Severus could respond, she had dashed away, her bare feet carrying her across the verdant grass in the direction of the nearby Swizzle residence. He scowled as he stared after her, but soon she had returned once again, a wound-healing potion in hand, and was nursing his injuries. The purple liquid stung and sizzled and smoked against his skin as she dabbed at his forehead and lip, and Severus flinched and withdrew as his face contorted with an ugly grimace.

"Severus, it'll only hurt more if you fight me on this," Jane told him gently as she continued to blot at him.

Severus scowled at her for her scolding, temperate as it was. She seemed undaunted by his sour expression, though, and continued to work, never asking how he had come to be in the battered state in which she had found him. He was quite sure she knew that Darius had been the source of his injuries; there was no way she could have _not_ known, after all. However, he appreciated that she didn't directly ask, that she didn't force herself into his confidence. Instead, Jane just worked silently, and when he'd recoil at the sting of a medication, she'd let him, her eyes without judgment or irritation.

"How's that?" Jane asked with a smile as she placed the stopper on the rest of the wound-healing potion and set it aside.

Severus had to admit he rather felt better. She had even mended his ribs, which had been quite sore since Darius' initial hex. "Where did you learn to do all that?" he asked quietly, hoping his interest in her skill was enough to prove his admiration for it. Expressions of gratitude were not, after all, his strong suit.

"My dad, I suppose. I've always wanted to be a Healer like him," Jane replied confidently. She looked probingly at him then. "What about you, Severus? What do you want to be?"

Severus hesitated as he looked at her. No one had ever asked him this question before. He knew Bicarius Cauderon was already plotting an occupation of splendour, in the field of Potions for him, but in truth, he hadn't given his future career much thought beyond that. No matter which path he chose, though, Severus instantly made himself a promise: unlike Jane, he wanted to be nothing like his father. Instead, he planned to be successful enough not to have to rely on Darius Snape for anything – not his home, his inheritance, or his connections. What's more, Severus vowed that he would someday have the power to make his father suffer for all the years of wrongs between them.

"I don't know exactly," Severus replied, his jaw bent with sudden determination, "but I'm going to be a great wizard someday."

"I know you will be," Jane replied casually, looking out at the way the sun glittered on the pond as she ran her toes through the grass. "I shouldn't even be surprised if you made Order of Merlin one day."

Astounded by the ease with which Jane had stated her confidence in him, Severus faltered, stunned into silence. Aside from his professors at Hogwarts, Severus wasn't used to anyone expressing such enthusiasm for him and his abilities – not anyone in Dolfield, anyway – and he found himself caught quite off-guard by her reassurance.

"You know, Severus, when someone gives you a compliment, it's generally polite to acknowledge it and thank them," Jane teased.

An irritated flush suffused Severus' normally pallid cheeks once more. "I-I didn't suppose you meant it," he stammered for lack of a better response.

"Severus, how many third years do you know who can make Veritaserum? Of course you're going to be great wizard," she said with a dismissive chuckle.

Before Severus had the opportunity to blush further at her continued praise, Jane changed the subject, and they spent the rest of the afternoon staring up at the sky, trying to make sense of the shapes in the clouds overhead. The effects of the events of that afternoon were much longer lasting, however, than the amount of time during which they took place. Indeed, Severus Snape never looked at Jane Swizzle the same way again. She'd always been there: the girl next door who perpetually had her nose in a book, was a bit bossy, and had a tendency to bat her eyes too much when she was nervous – the girl next door with whom he'd go swimming in the pond, search the night sky for constellations, and make Potions in class.

But despite Jane's constant, unwavering presence in his life, Severus had never _really_ noticed her before. He'd never truly appreciated the way the sun glinted off her wavy, black hair or the way her skin always smelled of lavender and soap or the way she crinkled her nose when she was thinking. He never truly appreciated the way she never forced herself into his affections or the way she always knew that when he'd snarl at her, he never really meant it.

Until right now.

* * *

Much to Severus' dismay, the fact that he never looked at Jane Swizzle quite the same way again following that summer afternoon by the pond proved weighty in the coming months.

"You just like her bubbies," Evan Rosier teased him one night in the dormitories. It was quite late, and thanks to Ian Wilkes' perpetual snoring, neither one of the boys had managed to fall asleep yet.

"I hadn't noticed them," Severus grumbled. It was a lie, of course – a blatant one, but being that he considered himself superior to the crudeness of carnal lust, he was loath to admit it.

"Like hell you haven't," Rosier scoffed, tossing his blonde head back in disbelief.

"You know, if you weren't such a dunderhead," Severus continued to protest through gritted teeth, "you'd realise there are other qualities that make a girl attractive beside her breasts."

"None that matter, mate," Rosier laughed. Even by the faint candlelight, Severus could see his green eyes flickering mischievously.

The hook-nosed boy sighed with annoyance and cast his friend a glare. It was no use protesting Rosier's authority on the qualities that made the softer sex attractive: he had, after all, had considerable more experience in this realm than anyone in their circle of friends, and he never missed an opportunity to remind them of this fact. Severus didn't know how much of his friend's boasting was true, but he did know for a fact that just last week, that nosey Bertha Jorkins had caught Rosier snogging Florence Feather by the greenhouses after Herbology. Evan had retaliated by hexing the intruder, and she – ever the insufferable cow – had tattled to the headmaster. There had been five points from Slytherin and detention to be served, but Rosier had felt quite as though this was a small price to pay for the pleasures of that afternoon.

In retrospect, Severus realised that he should have known better than to expect that Rosier would understand that his fascination with Jane was related to anything besides – as the latter had stated so crudely – bubbies. Save Rodolphus, neither Rosier nor any of their other mutual friends were aware of the horrors that plagued Severus' home life. Consequentially, they couldn't begin to comprehend how significant Jane's small but extraordinary kindnesses were when juxtaposed to Darius' cruelty; they couldn't begin to comprehend that Jane's bubbies were the least of her alluring assets.

* * *

Just because Severus' appreciation for Jane Swizzle had increased exponentially due to recent unfortunate circumstances did not, however, mean that she received preferential treatment from him. In fact, quite the opposite took place. Evidence of such arrived one afternoon as Severus was toiling with Jane over a Wit-Sharpening Potion. Professor Cauderon had, of course, heard of the previous year's Veritaserum incident, and Severus had the distinct impression that although he was loath to admit it, the Potions Master was quite impressed with the talent of the sallow boy with a propensity for mischief. Consequentially, Cauderon saw fit to pair Severus with the only other student in the class who displayed parallel promise: the very same Jane Swizzle who was coming to occupy increasing amounts of Severus' thoughts.

Unfortunately, despite their combined talents, it rapidly became clear that their Wit-Sharpening Potion had gone awry. It was too viscous and emitted a foul scent vaguely reminiscent of bubotuber pus. Considering his determination to be the top Potions student, Severus was quite disgruntled by such abnormalities. As such, he hardly attempted to conceal his annoyance.

"Obviously _you_ added too much ground scarab beetle, you dolt!" Severus snarled, staring at the potion in the cauldron skeptically.

Jane put her hands on her hips. "_No_, Severus," she replied authoritatively but calmly. "If the potion isn't the right consistency, it's because _you_ didn't add enough armadillo bile."

Severus froze and stared at the potion. His brows creased in a combination of disbelief and displeasure, and a flush suddenly filled his cheeks as it occurred to him that she was right: only the armadillo bile could have caused the potion to coagulate the way it had. Jane didn't wait for his response but sighed and reached for the flask at their side. Severus watched as she poured another measure of the liquid into the potion and stirred the contents of the cauldron counterclockwise to incorporate the new ingredient. Much to Severus' continued horror and embarrassment, the Wit-Sharpening Potion immediately became more fluid – the consistency it should have been to begin with – and the faint whiff like petrol subsided.

"No harm done, Severus," Jane told him. As she put the stopper back into the vial of armadillo bile, though, she could not help but smile slightly with amusement at his ensuing bewilderment. "See, it's gone right again."

Severus only scowled at the potion, which was simmering happily now, in a perturbed silence. His silence was broken, however, by the sudden input of Sirius Black, who hovered over his cauldron with Peter Pettigrew at the table beside him. The two had abandoned their equally forlorn-looking potion in favor of witnessing the exchange between Severus and Jane. Sirius' raised eyebrows indicated his obvious displeasure with what had transpired, and Severus felt rage course through his veins when he opened his mouth to criticise.

"Apologise to Jane for being such a git, Snivelly!" Sirius snapped.

Much like Evan Rosier, Sirius Black had, it seemed, recently discovered the allure of the feminine. He seemed well aware of the affect his good looks and dashing demeanor seemed to have on the female population of the school. Even if he had been a complete dunderhead, it would have been difficult not to notice how even the most beautiful and popular of girls was transformed into a blithering, love-struck fool the moment Sirius glanced their way or said hello to them. Sirius seemed to revel in such attention, and in order to ensure that he continued to receive it, he had become somewhat of a self-proclaimed champion for any and all of Hogwarts' young damsels in distress. He'd carry their books, clean their cauldrons, and help with homework. Defending Jane to Severus, the latter assumed, was the Gryffindor's latest act of chivalry performed in his unending quest to ingratiate himself to a girl.

Naturally, Severus deeply resented Sirius' interference, and he immediately determined to tell self-righteous adversary so. In truth, he couldn't remember having apologised for anything in years, and the mere suggestion that he should seemed rather scandalous to him – especially considering that said suggestion should be coming from Sirius Black. As Severus had never been known for being particularly tolerant, the notion of taking orders from Sirius was something he simply refused to accept.

"What do you care how I talk to Jane?" Severus retorted.

At that, Sirius bared his teeth very much like the dog Severus was quite convinced he was, and he abandoned his cauldron to instead take up the wand at his side. Aiming squarely at the triangle of pale skin between the Slytherin's dark eyes, he immediately thrust said wand threateningly towards Severus' face.

"Apologise or I'll make you, Snivellus!" he hissed.

Severus was about to open his mouth with a scathing reply when Jane, seeing the fury that filled the hook-nosed boy's eyes, intervened. "Thank you for your concern, Sirius, but there's no apology needed," she said calmly, with a shrug of nonchalance.

Sirius glowered. Why Jane felt the need to defend Severus Snape was beyond him, and he did not appreciate being dismissed when he was certain he was right.

"Jane, I am _not_ going to let this greaseball talk to you like that!" he protested. "It's not your fault Snivelly couldn't read the directions properly – that huge nose of his probably got in the way," he added with a smirk.

Peter Pettigrew chortled at this, and although the stocky boy was not normally so brazen as to tempt Severus' wrath, he felt quite confident with Sirius at his side, and so he saw fit to chime in. "Better watch out, Sirius, or Snape'll get you with another one of his famous hexes," he warned sarcastically.

Indeed, a hex was precisely how Severus was planning to retaliate. His normally pale face flushed a particularly garish shade of red, and his black eyes flamed malice. He trembled with indignation as he promptly withdrew his wand and waved it at Sirius Black. At once, the two boys were intense, shoulders square and wands raised menacingly, each daring the other to be the first to cast a hex.

"Severus, don't – you're above this petty nonsense," Jane begged him in an urgent whisper.

Fortunately, Professor Cauderon entered the scene before Severus had a chance to prove Jane's assessment of his character wrong. The Potions Master, who had been moving through the room surveying the progress of his students, halted by their workstations. Abruptly, Sirius and Severus lowered their wands and thrust them back into the confines of their robes. There was hardly any point to pretending they hadn't just been prepared to jinx one another to Hogsmeade and back, though, as half the class – and most like Cauderon himself – had undoubtedly seen.

"Everything all right here?" the Potions Master asked in his authoritative fashion, raising a suspicious eyebrow at the overt tension lingering in the air between Severus and Sirius.

Under Cauderon's knowing gaze, there was an awkward silence and an exchange of uncomfortable glances. As the anxiety-filled seconds passed, it became increasingly apparent that both Severus and Sirius were loath to justify their actions, and so it was Jane who spoke in their stead.

"Everything's perfectly wonderful, sir, thank you," she said suddenly, looking up at her favourite professor with what she hoped was an earnest smile. "We were merely discussing the proportions of armadillo bile."

Professor Cauderon raised his eyebrows doubtfully, clearly unconvinced of Jane's statement. His reservations were validated by the fact that Severus was still virtually twitching with an insatiable need to reach across the table and wrap his fingers around Sirius Black's throat.

Detecting the Potions Master's misgivings, Jane cleared her throat and resolved to try again. She'd had enough of the rivalry between Sirius and Severus. All it resulted in was senseless loss of house points and trips to the infirmary. "It was a rather... er... _spirited_ discussion," she added hopefully.

The Potions Master lingered a moment over the scene, but he said nothing more of the matter as the students grudgingly returned to their respective cauldrons. Still seething, Severus commenced slicing his ginger root angrily, maneuvering his scalpel with increasing violence, imagining that the stalk was Sirius Black's neck or – better yet – another similarly-shaped integral piece of his anatomy.

* * *

"You're jealous," Rodolphus Lestrange informed him with a smirk as they headed from class that afternoon.

"Jealous? Jealous of what?" Severus spat as he shifted his books in his arms.

"You're jealous of Sirius Black," the sandy-haired boy replied smugly, quite convinced that he had unlocked his cousin's innermost secret.

"And why in Merlin's name would I be jealous of that idiot?!" Severus demanded, his eyes glinting furiously.

Rodolphus' answer was smug and simple, brief yet unexpectedly profound. "Because the girls all fancy him, and you're worried Jane will too," he said matter-of-factly.

"Jealous of Black?!" Severus sputtered furiously. He looked positively murderous, and if he hadn't been carrying books, it was very likely that Rodolphus would have promptly found himself the brunt of a rather unpleasant hex or two. Instead, Severus would have to be content to merely say as much. "If you ever imply I'm jealous of Sirius Black again, I'll hex your bollocks off!"

Prudently, Rodolphus changed the subject then – commented on how Remus Lupin was once again absent from class, as they had noticed he was prone to do – and for this, Severus was quite grateful.

Indeed, the hook-nosed boy knew it did no good to be jealous of Sirius Black, as he was well aware that his unkempt hair and beak-like nose were no competition for the Gryffindor's sleek, long hair, muscular build, and handsomely dark features. Even if he could compete with Sirius in that sense, Severus wasn't entirely sure he'd want to: he was, after all, too practical for love – too unwilling to humiliate himself in the unrequited declaration of his affections as Sirius Black or James Potter were apparently so inclined to do.

However, as the weeks crept on, Severus' animosity towards Sirius Black only heightened, and whether he knew it or not, it was becoming increasingly obvious that perhaps Rodolphus was right: Severus bristled the moment a certain haughty Gryffindor paid Jane Swizzle the slightest attention, and he had to resist the urge to hex his enemy's extremities on more than one occasion.

_Severus, don't – you're above this petty nonsense_, Jane had entreated that fateful afternoon in Potions class.

Severus wondered how disappointed Jane would be when she realised that contrary to her beliefs, he was not, in fact, above such "petty nonsense." In actuality, he was quite motivated by it.

And it was only a matter of time before Jane Swizzle would discover this truth.


	9. The Aftermath of OWLs

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 8: The Aftermath of O.W.L.s

* * *

It was fortunate for Severus Snape that he enjoyed his studies. After all, thanks to his pending Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations, he had time to do very little else that year. He wasn't alone, of course. The frenzy associated with preparing for O.W.L.s afflicted countless fifth year students across the four houses of Hogwarts. No one was immune to the panic – least of all the Ravenclaws, who, despite their innate scholarly nature, seemed the most intent in their academic pursuits.

Of course, some handled the burden of O.W.L.s less gracefully than others. Morgana Crosby, for example, had a nervous breakdown near Christmastime, and Ian Wilkes had to be sent to the infirmary for having taken too much Baruffio's Brain Elixer. Severus, however, merely spent most of his waking hours in the stacks of the library. The pressure he ordinarily placed on himself to excel was compounded by the fact that Darius Snape had made it perfectly clear that he would accept nothing less than the best from his son when it came to his Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations.

"That's simply unacceptable, Severus!" Darius had raged at him over Easter holidays. "Nowhere near good enough!"

Severus lowered his wand and stepped back to survey his work. Before him, Zoe stood trembling in pain from the Bruising Curse that Darius was teaching him to perform. Dark patches were starting to form on the pale skin of her arms. Zoe gasped when she saw them, and her too-wide eyes brimmed with tears. Nonetheless she resisted the urge to cry out against her masters' torment.

"How do you expect to do well on your O.W.L.s when you can't even perform a simple curse like this?!" Darius continued, his dark eyes glinting maliciously.

Severus highly doubted the Wizarding Examinations Authority would be testing him on how to perform Dark magic such as this. After all, the point of his studies was to learn _defense_ against Dark arts, not Dark arts themselves. However, as his father proceeded with his lecture, Severus did not have the opportunity to tell him this.

"Curses are no good if the emotion behind them is empty," Darius told him. "You have to _mean_ it – you have to _want_ to cause harm."

Looking at Zoe's bedraggled form, Severus had a hard time imagining how he could possibly want to cause the house-elf true harm. She was too mournful a creature, and she had done nothing to merit his wrath. Darius, however, seemed intent to prove Severus wrong. The older Snape promptly raised his own wand to Zoe. The house-elf backed away nervously, wringing her hands in fretful anticipation of Darius' curse. Time had taught her to fear Darius' punishments beyond all else, and she braced herself in preparation for it.

"_Contunderus!_" Darius hissed.

As the bolt of light catapulted towards her, Zoe shrieked and collapsed to the floor. She panted and moaned as fresh bruises surfaced on her arms, then her legs, then her face. There was one over her eye, as though she'd just been punched, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. If it wasn't for the heaving of her chest as she whimpered from the ache consuming her tiny body, Severus would have wondered if Zoe was even alive.

Then, grinning in cruel admiration of his own handiwork, Darius turned to his son. "_That's_ how it's done, Severus," he said. His voice was calm and cold and oddly even, each syllable pronounced with dangerous precision. "Now raise your wand and do it again until you get it right. No son of mine will be anything less than brilliant."

"Then maybe I don't want to be your son," Severus muttered under his breath as he rolled back the sleeves of his robes in preparation for what promised to be a long night of practising hexes.

As to be expected, Darius promptly made him suffer for such a comment, turning his wand on Severus rather than Zoe to illustrate the power of the Bruising Curse. In turn, an indignant Severus pondered intentionally failing his O.W.L.s just to spite his father. It was, after all, the only means of revenge he had against Darius. In the end, though, such a resolve proved futile. Severus found himself a creature of habit; he was too self-motivated to neglect his studies and only found himself doubling his efforts instead.

Looking back, Severus supposed the hours of study had paid off. He had devoted particular attention to Charms and Transfiguration, and although he'd never been overly fond of wand-waving, he thought he'd managed to do well nonetheless. Meanwhile, Arithmancy, Herbology, and Ancient Runes were unqualified successes. Defense Against the Dark Arts proved similar. Severus had even quite nearly laughed out loud when he'd seen the simplicity of the questions that comprised this exam – essays like "describe the best manner by which to defend oneself against the Imperius curse" and "discuss five identifying signs of the werewolf." He could have answered such questions practically before even coming to Hogwarts, and he had still been enthusiastically scribbling answers on his parchment when the proctor, Professor Flitwick, announced for them to lower their quills and remain seated while he collected their completed exams. Reluctantly, Severus had surrendered his parchment. Although his fingers still itched with the insatiable need to write more, he was satisfied that he had achieved a near – if not entirely – perfect score.

* * *

Of course, the ease of his Defense Against the Dark Arts exam was of little comfort to Severus now. The glory of the afternoon was shattered by the fact that shortly after he'd stepped into the courtyard, James Potter and Sirius Black had disarmed him and subjected him to a series of jinxes and humiliations. It had begun with the Impediment Curse; a flash later found him dangling upside down in midair, robes drooping down to his chin rather than his ankles; next was a body bind, and – thanks largely to the interference of that obnoxious Mudblood Lily Evans – he was now dangling upside down once more.

It was utterly degrading, a mortification worse than anything Severus could recall having previously experienced. Not even Darius Snape's punishments left him feeling so violated, and all the while, Severus was defenseless, left with little recourse but to spout rage and swears and hexes he lacked the wand to actualize. If he were completely honest with himself, Severus would have been able to admit that he deserved this – that he'd seen such trouble coming his way. Since the Veritaserum incident two springs ago, he and James Potter seemed to have entered into a silent showdown, a competition to see who could publicly humiliate the other more. However, just because Severus expected such torment did not mean he was willing to stoically accept it. Instead, fury filled him as he struggled futilely against gravity in an attempt to right his robes.

"Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?" James hissed.

At James' suggestion, a cheer of encouragement rose from the crowd surrounding them, and as the spectacled boy aimed his wand in promise to make good on his threat, Severus panicked. He hastily abandoned his mission of righting his robes in favor of grasping the waistband of his underpants instead. As Lily Evans had pointed out, his underpants were old and frayed and grey, and a rosy hue suffused Severus' cheeks at their exposure. The wealth of the Snape family may not have been in league with the likes of the Malfoys, but there certainly were more than enough Galleons in Gringotts for underpants. Darius Snape, however, was decidedly not father of the year and chose to squander his money on Dark artifacts and political causes rather than buy his son new clothes. Not even Zoe's meager abilities with the laundry could conserve the pairs Severus had somehow managed to obtain. Nonetheless, Severus clutched desperately at the threadbare fabric, at the symbol of his father's negligence and his house-elf's uselessness, and he hoped against the odds that he possessed strength enough to impede James' attempts to remove his underpants.

"Awwwww, look at how shy Snivelly is," Sirius snickered.

There was a flash of light then, and the bystanders squealed with joy as, despite Severus' attempt at self-preservation, the underpants lurched upwards a bit, away from his navel and down his hips. James, clearly feeling immensely proud of himself for the entertainment he was so aptly providing, flicked his wand again. Approving laughter rippled through the air as Severus' underpants slid a bit further down his hips. The hook-nosed boy cried out incoherently, trying ardently to tug his underpants back down, but it was a losing battle: James' spell was too strong, and it was clear that he was determined to make a show of this, that he was going to drag each moment out in order to torment Severus as much as possible.

"You know, Snivellus, I'm a reasonable person," James told him, his eyes glinting mischievously. "I'm open to negotiation. You just say the word."

Greatly affronted by such a proposition, Severus growled a string of unintelligible but decidedly foul expletives. He'd never hear the end of this in the Slytherin dormitories tonight, and surrendering to a Gryffindor – to James Potter at that – would only make things worse for him.

"Have it your way, then," James replied with a sneer. He waved his wand again, and at once, Severus' underpants were precariously close to failing in their primary function to clothe him.

Severus gasped as it occurred to him that with another flick of James' wand, the inevitable would occur. He would be exposed before half of the school, and he let out a low, horrible howl of anguish at the idea of undergoing such an attack. "Let me down!" he barked suddenly, unable to tolerate such torment any longer. The words escaped his lips before he was conscious of them doing so, and even he wasn't quite sure whether he was begging or demanding his release.

"What was that, Snivelly?" James asked, although Severus was quite sure he had heard him perfectly well and was merely gloating at Severus' surrender. "I didn't quite hear you."

"Let me down!" Severus panted, still struggling with his underpants. "Let – me – bloody – down!"

Even upside down, Severus could see the corners of James' lips turn to form a haughty grin. "All you had to do was ask," he chuckled as he lowered his wand.

With a dull thump and a groan of pain, Severus fell facedown to the ground below. Before he had time to even raise his head, though, James and Sirius had advanced on him, and he found himself eye-to-eye with their boots.

"I don't think he asked nicely enough, James," Sirius said, regarding Severus like he was some foul object or diseased creature. "Do you?"

"Not nearly," James replied, playing into Sirius' cruel game. "After all, he didn't say please."

Sirius grinned slowly and deliberately. "I think we need to teach him some manners, then, don't you, mate?"

"Couldn't agree more, Sirius," James concurred with a knowing snicker. He pointed his wand menacingly at Severus once again. "Say 'please,' Snivelly," he ordered.

Severus glowered, his hatred for the two boys before him burning in his black eyes. He could think of plenty of things he'd like to say to James Potter and Sirius Black, and oddly enough, none of them involved use of the world "please."

"Go to Hades!" he snarled as he struggled to get to his feet.

Before he had even the chance to prop himself up on his elbows, however, Sirius had reached down to wrap a hand around the back of Severus' neck and pinned him back to the ground. The next moment, he was forcing Severus' head downward, grinding his face relentlessly in the grass and dirt.

"Say 'please,' Snivellus!" he insisted, laughing cruelly.

Severus squirmed and coughed and tried to expel the dirt from his mouth, but he succeeded only in making a muddy mess that dribbled down his chin and smeared across his cheek. "Sod – off!" he gasped.

"Poor Snivelly," Sirius continued with feigned sympathy. "His mother never got the chance to teach him manners."

Chuckles reverberated throughout the crowd, and listening to such laughter at his expense and his mother's, Severus was incensed anew. There was strength in such anger, and he twisted and turned ferociously under Sirius' weight in rebellion. The blood in Severus' veins pumped fiercely, and shouts of excitement from the bystanders rang in his ears. Little other thought occupied his mind, except to punch and kick and slap and bite any part of Sirius Black that he could. He had resorted to the most base form of retaliation possible: fist fighting like a common Muggle. Darius Snape would be so disappointed, but given that his wand was still several feet away from his grasp, Severus saw few other options.

"Get him, Sirius!" a bystander shouted over the fray.

Severus thrashed all the harder at that, and despite the fact that his scrawny frame made him a clear underdog, he actually managed to land one good blow to Sirius' left cheek. Startled, Sirius let go and stumbled back. He got quickly to his feet, bringing a hand to his face to check for any harbingers of permanent deformity. Hecate forbid his aristocratic good looks should be jeopardized. Finding no lasting damage, he turned an icy glare to the boy still panting on the ground below.

"You are _mental_, Snivellus!" Sirius barked at him. A stunned silence fell across the courtyard as he turned abruptly and stalked away, still massaging his sore jaw bone. It was clear that the spectacle of the afternoon was over.

Pondering a means of retribution, Severus stared after his tormentors a moment, but it was clear that the moment for vengeance had passed. Instead, he scrambled to his feet and, trying to salvage the fragile remains of his dignity, began to collect his fallen books and wand. He was faintly aware of the bystanders dispersing, but he still felt their gazes lingering on him. Indignantly, Severus wiped his filthy face on the cuff of his robes, leaving a trail of dirt, blood, and snot in his wake.

"Mind your own sodding business!" he snarled at them.

Muddied, bloodied, and utterly humiliated, Severus trudged back up to the castle to clean himself up.

* * *

Severus' last O.W.L., Potions, was tomorrow. Professor Cauderon had told him he'd expected great things from him, and Severus was eager not to disappoint. However, gossip about how James Potter and Sirius Black had made a fool of him that afternoon had spread through Slytherin like the plague, and considering the relentless snickering and glares he received from his housemates, Severus found it quite impossible to concentrate on his studies in the common room. Only Evan Rosier, who had been in his Divination exam at the time of the incident, offered Severus his condolences.

"Rotten luck, mate," Rosier had told him.

Severus was stunned by his friend's uncharacteristic sympathy until the sandy-haired wizard opened his mouth once more to continue.

"Wish I'd seen Potter try to take off your underpants, though," Rosier promptly added with a laugh. "That must've been bloody hysterical! Where's a Time-Turner when you need one?!"

Indeed, it seemed that if Severus was going to get an Outstanding O.W.L. in Potions tomorrow, he'd have to find an alternative place to study. Grudgingly, he picked up his books and notebooks and retreated to the Hogwarts library. After situating himself at a table overlooking the lake, Severus sighed with relief into the silence. He'd have preferred to study in complete isolation, of course, but he could not deny that there was something comforting about the musty smell of the books and the quietude proffered by the stacks, and so Severus began to study.

Just as he was glancing up to reach for his notes on the properties of the moonstone, Severus noticed Jane Swizzle enter the library. He should have known she'd be here – she was _always_ here; being among the smartest girls in school required such academic devotion, after all. Under other circumstances, he might have been quite glad to see her. However, as he was still most embarrassed about the events of the afternoon and felt fairly certain that by now Jane had heard of them, Severus sank down in his seat as she walked past instead, hoping in vain that she wouldn't see him.

Being that she did not possess the social ineptitude that Severus did, Jane could often be spotted in the company of members of all four of the Hogwarts houses: Sometimes she was with Penelope Prewett, her cousin in Hufflepuff; other times with Alice Gordon of Gryffindor; and still other times, she could be seen chatting along just as brightly with Florence Feather from Slytherin. Such was the case this evening.

"Did you hear about the latest raid on that Muggle neighborhood in Wiltshire?" Severus heard Jane asking her companions as they settled themselves at a nearby table. "It was horrible! The same symbol could be seen in the air above the houses – a skull with a snake."

"I can't believe they haven't been able to stop the group responsible for all these attacks yet," Alice added. "Even the Muggle police are involved, I think."

"My father says he's surprised there haven't been strikes against Hogwarts yet," Florence told them authoritatively. "He'll insist that the school should be closed, of course. He has quite a way with the Board of Governors, after all."

"Well, I suspect we're safe here," Penelope chirped in her small voice.

Severus scowled into his potions text at Penelope Prewett's words. With the likes of James Potter and Sirius Black on the loose, he hardly considered himself safe within the cocoon of Hogwarts. Nonetheless, it was easy to forget the troubles of the outside world here – the fact that across the country, scenes of violence against Muggles and Mudbloods had increased at a startling rate. Indeed, something Dark was transpiring beyond the shelter of the castle, and although he was reluctant to admit it, Severus was highly suspicious that the mark that reportedly lingered at the scene of most of the protests and uprisings was somehow connected to the symbol he had noticed some time ago on his father's left forearm.

Safe from the outside world or not, it was at that exact moment that his presence in the library was noticed.

"Look, there's Snivellus," mocked Florence in hushed tones. "I wonder if he's changed his underpants yet."

Muffled giggling followed, and although Severus pretended not to have heard the girls' snickering, his normally pale cheeks flushed. He sunk further down in his seat, burying his face so deeply in his copy of _Popular Potions for the Practical_ that he could scarcely read it. Of course, if Severus hadn't been intently trying to ignore the girls, he would have seen that one among them was not laughing at him. Instead, a scowl crossed Jane Swizzle's otherwise pleasant face.

"Someday I hope I'm as perfect as you are, Florence, so that I can make fun of people, too," she said coldly.

"Jane, you can't be serious," Florence scoffed, clucking her tongue in dismay.

Contrary to Florence Feather's assessment, though, Jane was indeed serious. Despite the scoffing and glares that followed her, she crossed over to Severus' table then, and much to their collective surprise, she placed her burden of books at the seat across from him and sat down. Rather presumptuous of her, Severus thought, but at the same time, he had to admit he admired her boldness: Not many would be willing to be seen in his company right now.

"Shouldn't you be sitting with your idiot friends?" Severus asked her grimly, motioning to the girls she'd come in with. They had migrated to the Arithmancy stacks now and were still furtively glancing in Severus' direction and giggling.

"You _are_ my friend, Severus," Jane replied simply. Unaffected by his sour disposition, she unrolled her parchment without budging. "Besides, I thought we could confer on our work for Potions. You are studying for tomorrow's O.W.L., aren't you?"

He only frowned and turned back to his work. "I suppose you'll be expecting some expression of my gratitude now," said Severus coolly.

Jane's brow crinkled with bewilderment. "Gratitude? For what?" she asked.

Rolling his eyes with disgust, Severus nodded his head in the direction of the Arithmancy section. Feminine murmurings could still be heard therein.

"Oh... them," she whispered, following his gaze. She leaned across the table towards him as though about to divulge a secret of utmost importance. "Between you and me, Florence has always been a bit of a cow. She's had that coming for ages." Jane sat back once more then and dipped her quill in the ink well. Within moments, she was scratching studiously away on her parchment as though nothing had happened.

Severus watched her a moment as she worked, stunned and impressed by her nonchalance, before returning to his own parchment. They sat together for quite some time, both taking notes on potions with avid interest and pausing only to ask one another brief questions related to academics. Although he was wary to admit it, Severus appreciated that Jane was studying with him; he appreciated that she had defended him to her friends, and he appreciated that she had the decency not to discuss it with him.

It was quite late when Madam Pince made to shoo them out of the library. Severus offered to walk Jane back to the Ravenclaw common room: It was his tacit way of thanking her, as he was too proud to say the actual words. Realising this was quite a magnanimous gesture for the likes of Severus Snape, Jane accepted his offer with her trademark warm smile, a grin which conveyed that she understood his unspoken gratitude.

"Good luck on Potions tomorrow, Severus," she said when they reached the Ravenclaw corridor. "Although I'm sure you don't need it."

* * *

As it so happened, Severus didn't need Jane's wishes for good luck on his Potions O.W.L. He was hardly surprised when his scores arrived one particularly stifling July afternoon. Outstanding: that was his Potions mark. It was his score in everything, actually – even Transfiguration and Charms, the subjects he'd detested the most when he'd first started at Hogwarts. Severus had the entire summer to feel quite pleased with himself for scoring so well. His delight in receiving top marks was the only thing that made being in the same house as Darius Snape bearable, and consequentially, he thought about them frequently.

And the more he thought about his O.W.L. scores, the more Severus Snape thought about Jane Swizzle and how, despite the fateful events following his Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., she had not shunned him. He thought about Jane Swizzle all summer, in fact, and in so doing, Severus realised that there wasn't much about her that he didn't like. But it wasn't just her wide brown eyes or the way her round, pink face looked illuminated over the wispy fumes of her cauldron that intrigued him. It was the way she didn't prattle on about inane things – things like the current hit on the Wizarding Wireless Network or the latest robes fashions – like other girls did. Instead, she talked about relevant things, about things that mattered – things like politics and academics. It was also the gentle way she said his name and the confidence in her stride. And it was especially the fact that Jane Swizzle was among the smartest girls at Hogwarts and one of the few students whose Potions marks rivaled his own.

_Bloody hell, I fancy her_, Severus thought with disdain.

It was an unpleasant epiphany for Severus, as he had neither the time nor the energy to fancy anyone. He had N.E.W.T.s year after next and an apprenticeship to seek. His courses would be more challenging than ever and he had to devote every moment of his spare time to study – becoming the greatest Potions master of the age would be hard work, after all. Indeed, he didn't particularly_ want_ to feel kindly towards Jane, but – much to his frustration – he found he simply couldn't help it.

Nor could Severus help but get a funny twinge below his waist when he thought about Jane Swizzle. Every time he closed his eyes and envisioned her face, that familiar sensation between his legs instantly reappeared, and he'd have no choice but to slip his hand inside the confines of his robes to indulge his excitement. Severus found it to be quite a nuisance, really, that his body refused to behave itself. But it was a welcome nuisance nonetheless.


	10. The Whomping Willow

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 9: The Whomping Willow:

Or, Confirmation that Sirius Black is a Complete Git

* * *

It was during the first month of school some weeks later that Jane indicated that the feelings Severus had for her were mutual. They were studying Potions together in the library again; such had become their tradition since the night they'd prepared for the O.W.L. together last spring. While studying, they became embroiled in a debate about the quantity of Jobberknoll feathers used in the Rapid Recall Memory Potion. Consequentially, they resolved to consult the library's copy of _Popular Potions for the Practical_ to settle their dispute, and both promptly headed over to the rather quiet and secluded Potions stacks to locate the volume. In their academic zeal, however, they reached for the book at the same time, and in doing so, Severus' hand brushed Jane's atop the binding of the book. 

This wasn't the first time they'd made physical contact with one another, of course: they'd played together as children, after all, and there had been countless times their fingertips had met as they were passing one another shrivelfig or caterpillar legs in Potions class. This time, however, was different: the moment was charged with burgeoning adolescent sexual curiosity, and a heavy flush filled Severus' cheeks as he pulled awkwardly away.

"Sorry," he said quickly, only nervously raising his eyes to meet hers.

Such nervousness, Severus promptly discovered, was unnecessary. Jane had neither recoiled nor was looking upon him with revulsion. Instead, she stared intently at him, eyes wide and shimmering in the same foolish way he had observed James Potter looking after Lily Evans.

"M-may I kiss you, Severus?" Jane asked him softly.

She didn't wait for his reply, and perhaps this was just as well, for if she had waited, Severus would undoubtedly have replied with rejection, a defense mechanism born of a lifetime of being hurt. Instead, Jane wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and stood on tip-toe to reach his lips with her own. It took a moment of floundering with where to put his hands and how to stand, but Severus eventually returned her gesture. His kisses were given with somewhat less grace than hers, as his nose proved to be a bit of an obstacle for him to circumvent, but the sentiment was the same, and Jane didn't seem to mind. As they kissed, she took his hands in hers and guided them over the folds of her robes, taking him to explore parts of her body that he had previously only thought about in the privacy of his darkened bedroom at Dolfield.

And the real thing was definitely better than what Severus had imagined.

* * *

Some time later, Severus and Jane emerged from the privacy of the Hogwarts stacks with clothing slightly wrinkled and hair a bit rumpled. Needless to say, the exact proportions of Jobberknoll feathers in the Rapid Recall Memory Potion remained an enigma for the rest of the afternoon. Nonetheless, they had managed to escape the watchful eye of Madam Pince, and for that, they were grateful. Of course, it would have been better if they had managed to escape _everyone_'s watchful eye, but as Severus headed back to the Slytherin common room afterwards, he quickly learned that such was not the case: he and Jane had been the victim of voyeurism after all – and the worst part was that the voyeurs were none other than those gits, James Potter and Sirius Black. 

"I saw Snivellus snogging Jane Swizzle in the stacks," James snickered as Severus passed them in the corridor. "Can't see how he manages it with that big nose of his getting in the way."

"Jane's a nice girl – don't know what she's doing with a greasy git like Snivelly," Sirius added tauntingly.

Severus turned sharply to face them, a flush of fury suffusing his ordinarily pallid cheeks. "Sod off, or I'll hex you to Hades," he hissed, reaching for his wand at once and aiming it threateningly at James.

"You haven't got the bollocks, Snape," sneered James, who was quick to raise his wand menacingly as well. "Not after what happened after O.W.L.s last year."

The redness in Severus' face was renewed at the memory of the events following their D.A.D.A. O.W.L. He still hadn't recovered from the humiliation of it, and the fact that Florence Feather still mockingly inquired about the state of his underpants on a regular basis didn't help any.

"Why, you – you – " Severus sputtered in rage, flecks of spittle flying from his thin lips.

James and Sirius only chuckled, though. "Uh-oh, Sirius, ickle Snivellus is mad now," James laughed sarcastically. "If he doesn't calm down, I may be forced to curse his bits off."

"Oh, no, James – don't do that," Sirius said with feigned concern. "We wouldn't want to cause old Snivelly permanent damage – after all, next time he and Jane may fancy a shag in the stacks, and _that's_ something we could charge admission to."

Instantly enraged, Severus opened his mouth to utter one of his infamously vicious and obscure curses when the distinct and sharp voice of Professor Cauderon suddenly cut through the air, commanding all their attention. The three boys whirled around simultaneously to find the Potions master standing sternly before them, a scowl bent on his otherwise handsome face.

"_That_ will be quite enough, Mr. Black and Mr. Potter," said Professor Cauderon acerbically. "I don't think that anything Severus Snape and Jane Swizzle do in the stacks is any of _your_ business. Five points from Gryffindor for being excessively nosey."

Sirius and James exchanged infuriated scowls and groans of protest, for which Professor Cauderon deducted an additional five points from their house. Severus, however, returned to the Slytherin common room, unscathed and feeling quite pleased with the events of the evening: not only had he snogged Jane (for it really was snogging, despite how he detested James saying it), but James Potter and Sirius Black had gotten into trouble. Life didn't get much better than this for Severus Snape.

* * *

Having had his private moment in the stacks with Jane spoiled by the insensitive voyeurism of Sirius Black and James Potter, Severus Snape saw fit to return the favour to his enemies, and so he did with zeal. He grew increasingly keen to listen in on their conversations in the corridor if the opportunity presented itself, and he always kept an eye out for any suspicious activity, anxious to report illicit behavior to a prefect or – better yet – Professor McGonagall herself. 

"Severus, I wish you wouldn't snoop," Jane implored him one evening. "It's just going to cause more trouble."

Jane was right, of course. Severus' determination to expose James Potter and Sirius Black for the mischief-making little prats they were was proving to be quite destructive: inevitably, Severus' investigations would result in the exchange of some rather nasty hexes between the boys. They never missed an opportunity to curse one another, it seemed, and their pranks more often than not resulted in the deduction of points from their houses, detentions, and – at least once a week – a visit to the infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey would have to sort out their enlarged teeth or the tail that had sprouted from their posterior.

And then one night, something occurred that made teeth and tails look like mere child's play. When it began, Severus was serving detention with Hagrid for having cast a supremely effective Bat-Bogey Hex at James Potter the previous day.

"Isn't it against school rules for me to be here?" Severus asked testily as Hagrid put him to work strewing bloodied carcasses around the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest. What the purpose of these carcasses was, Severus didn't know, and so he eyed them with disgust as he dragged the gory animal remains from the heap by Hagrid's hut.

The gamekeeper chuckled good-naturedly at the young wizard's trademark impertinence. "Well, someone's gotta feed 'em," he replied, heaving a particularly large cow hide to the ground.

"Feed them? Feed what?" Severus spat.

Hagrid pointed to the ground, to the carcass he had just placed there, and Severus gasped as he noticed that pieces of it were somehow suddenly disappearing, being torn by some invisible object hovering over it. He staggered back in horror, unsure what to make of the scene, and he turned his pale countenance to Hagrid questioningly.

"Thestrals," Hagrid replied with a grin at seeing Severus' reaction. "Surely Professor Kettleburn's taught yeh all about 'em?"

Severus swallowed hard and shook his head. Thestrals. Despite the fact that the Care of Magical Creatures teacher hadn't taught them about the winged beasts yet, Severus had read plenty about them in one of his father's books. He'd seen sketches of their eerily skeletal forms, and he knew all about how Dark they were considered, how they were unlucky, and how one could only see them after first having seen death. Despite this, thestrals had always fascinated him, and Severus' eyes widened with sudden awe at the thought that he was in the presence of these forebidding animals.

"Nuthin' ter be scared of, yeh know," Hagrid assured Severus, mistaking the boy's interest for the more common reaction to the beasts. "They got a bad reputation's all. Gentle as can be, thestrals are."

"I'm _not_ scared," Severus replied indignantly, insulted to have his virility challenged. "I _like_ them."

The gamekeeper's kindly black eyes twinkled, and he noted with amusement how entranced Severus seemed by these creatures he couldn't even see. "I figured yeh would," he chuckled, stealing towards what Severus presumed was one of the beasts and running his hand affectionately along its back.

Hagrid looked rather foolish, of course, to Severus: stroking and fondling what appeared to be nothing but the thin air. However the boy had to admit he was intrigued by these dark and mysterious creatures, and so he stepped forward to examine the scene more closely.

"This one here's called Tenebrus," Hagrid told him, ushering towards the form that Severus, knowing the gamekeeper's affinity for the most beastly of beasts, assumed was probably the most ominous of the thestrals. "My favourite."

"Can I?" Severus asked, extending a hand towards the yet-invisible beast.

Hagrid smiled and stepped back so Severus could take his place stroking Tenebrus' side. "Beau'iful, ain't he?" he asked, his voice a little choked with emotion. Severus was quite positive that he saw a tear of affection on the gamekeeper's cheek glistening in the light of the full moon.

"I wish I could see him," Severus murmured with a slight nod of affirmation, tracing his hand along what he assumed was Tenebrus' mane.

Hagrid shook his head. "Don't yeh be sayin' that, now," he scolded gently as he carried on strewing carcasses for what Severus presumed was the rest of the herd.

Severus looked up as he ran his hand along Tenebrus' soft, velveteen neck. He was about to ask what tragedy the gamekeeper had witnessed that permitted him to view these winged beasts, but he hesitated as he was promptly distracted by a curious vision in the distance: two forms were making their way across the front lawn of the school, apparently headed towards the Whomping Willow. Severus squinted. If he wasn't mistaken, he believed he recognised the soft facial features of Madam Pomfrey and the sickly ones of a gangly teenaged boy – a teenaged boy who looked remarkably like Remus Lupin.

Severus' hand stilled on Tenebrus' mane, and his heart beat faster as he fixed his eyes on Lupin and the nurse. His mind raced with questions. He and Rodolphus had noted before that Lupin was frequently absent from class. Was it possible that this unusual occurrence was somehow related? But why? What was going on? Why would _anyone_ go near that tree – that same tree that had nearly claimed Davy Gudgeon's eye just last year?!

"Sev'rus, hand me that pig carcass, will yeh?" Hagrid called from the distance, intruding upon the hook-nosed boy's train of thought.

Severus jolted at the mention of his name and reluctantly tore his eyes away from Lupin and Madam Pomfrey to do as the gamekeeper asked.

When he turned back, they were gone.

* * *

Lupin wasn't in their Defense Against the Dark Arts class the next day, Severus noted. Nor was he in Transfiguration, Potions, or – as he learned from Rodolphus at dinner that night – Divination. 

"Apparently he's skiving off classes again," Rodolphus said with disgust. "Don't know why he gets away with it – just because he's a prefect, I suppose."

"He doesn't get away with it," Severus replied authoritatively. "The teachers know. In fact, they _help_ him."

Rodolphus' eyes bulged at the revelation of this information, and Severus proceeded to relay the story of what he had seen while feeding thestrals with Hagrid the previous evening.

"I didn't know loony Lupin fancied Madam Pomfrey," Bellatrix Black snickered, tossing her dark hair over her shoulders haughtily as she slid into a seat beside Rodolphus. Rodolphus looked at her like the love-struck schoolboy he was, to which Bellatrix responded with annoyed amusement.

Nauseated by his cousin's rather noxious display of unrequited affection, Severus excused himself from the table a few moments later. He didn't think either Rodolphus or Bellatrix heard him, though, as they seemed too absorbed in their little flirtations over the treacle tarts and pumpkin juice. Severus didn't especially mind that Rodolphus had other matters on his mind, however. After all, he was due to meet Jane in the library to study for Potions himself, and so he gathered his books and made his way out of the Great Hall without complaint.

It was while Severus was walking a particularly desolate corridor that he heard footsteps in the distance. Startled, he instantly abandoned his books and instead whipped his wand from his robes.

"Who's there?" Severus called. "Show yourself."

Sirius Black emerged from around the corner, his cheeks flushed and slightly breathless as though he had been running. "My, my, my, Snivellus, you certainly are a paranoid little git, aren't you?" he chortled, tossing his head back arrogantly.

Severus glowered into the face of his enemy, his wand still raised suspiciously. "Not with your Gryffindors tonight, Black?" he spat. "Or are you taking a late night jaunt out to the Willow like Lupin?"

Sirius' eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he beheld the hook-nosed boy with a mixture of awe and horror. It seemed impossible to him, after all, that Severus could have stumbled across the secret that Lupin had been struggling to hide from the students of Hogwarts for nearly six years, and yet Severus' reference to the Willow had been unmistakable.

"Oh yes," Severus replied coolly, looking entirely too pleased with himself for having so evidently struck a nerve within his enemy. "I saw Lupin with Madam Pomfrey by the Willow last night. Detention can have its rewards after all, you know."

What, exactly, caused Sirius Black to do it, even he didn't know in retrospect. Perhaps it was because he'd finally had enough of Severus' blasted preoccupation with trying to get them into trouble. Perhaps it was because it was just too easy not to be tempted to do it. Regardless of the reason, Sirius replied with a smirk, "It's nothing special, Snape, if that's what you're thinking – just a shortcut – an underground tunnel that takes you right under the Willow and up to Gryffindor Tower. Find out yourself if you don't believe me."

"Find out myself?" Severus questioned with a skeptical smirk.

"Of course," Sirius shrugged, folding his arms across his chest confidently. "There's this knothole in the Willow, and all you have to do is use a long stick or something to poke at it, and it'll open up to a tunnel," he replied as though it was inherently obvious. "Simple as can be."

Severus hesitated, his eyes surveying the taller boy suspiciously. All he had to do was prod the knot hole in the Whomping Willow? It was too easy, too infantile. It had to be a trick. He'd learned a long time ago that Sirius Black bore nothing but malice towards him, and consequentially, he was reluctant to believe anything the latter said. With this in mind, Severus made up his mind: no amount of taunting was going to coax him to go near that bloody tree.

Sirius' eyes glinted wildly as he saw the hesitancy in Severus' face. "Oh, don't tell me you're _scared_, are you, Snivellus?"

"I'm not scared – just not dumb enough to fall for one of your stupid pranks," the hook-nosed boy retorted indignantly.

"A prank?" Sirius scoffed. "You really are as stupid as you are ugly, aren't you? I thought _everyone_ knew about the knothole trick by now – James and I've been using it since second year. Even Davy Gudgeon figured it out, and he's as thick as a board. I thought you were smarter than that, Snivelly."

"Sod off, Black," Severus hissed, pushing past the Gryffindor and stalking down the corridor once again.

The problem was, Severus Snape _was_ smarter than to fall for one of Sirius Black's cruel tricks; he did not, after all, have the mentality of Peter Pettigrew. In fact, Severus didn't believe a word Sirius said: nothing he had told him made sense. For instance, why would Madam Pomfrey go with Lupin to the tree? And why did no one else – despite Sirius' insistence – seem to know about the knothole? It was his quest for the answer to these burning questions which caused Severus to double back down the corridor, back past the Great Hall, and to slip out into the darkness of outdoors.

He had to prove to himself that Sirius Black had been trying to trick him.

* * *

The Whomping Willow looked particularly ominous in the brazen beams of the full moon. Its treacherous branches hovered in midair, poised for attack. Severus had heard what had happened to Davy Gudgeon last year, and, anxious not to duplicate the occurrence, he gave the ground a cursory glance, searching for a stick long enough to provide a suitable distance between himself and the malicious branches. Having found a suitable discard from the tree, Severus drew closer. 

And then he saw it: the knothole Sirius had mentioned.

"Merlin's balls," Severus murmured with disbelief.

Stick extended, the hook-nosed boy approached with caution and prodded the knot, just as Sirius Black had instructed. The tree had stilled when Severus tapped the knothole with the stick. Not a leaf wavered, not a branch trembled. It was eerie, really, and a chill crept down Severus' spine as he approached the silent Whomping Willow. There was a gap in the roots, an opening wide enough for a person to slip inside. Stealing a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, Severus drew closer.

* * *

In the library, Jane glanced impatiently up at the clock hanging on the wall overhead. It was the ninth time she'd done so in about as many minutes, but she couldn't help it: it wasn't like Severus to be late – especially when it came to his studies. 

"I don't like this, Lily," she whispered nervously to the auburn-haired girl sitting across from her. "Something's wrong."

Lily shrugged over the edge of her Transfiguration text. "He probably just lost track of time," she reassured.

Jane sighed, not knowing how to explain to Lily that Severus Snape was not one to lose track of time – that the only instances in which she had ever known him to be late were due to a violent run-in with his father. However, Jane was quite sure that this information was not something Severus would appreciate her sharing with the likes of Lily Evans, and so she just nodded dismissively and was about to turn back to her own Transfiguration text when a figure in the stacks caught her eye. He was a tall boy with glasses and shaggy, dark hair, and although he was clearly trying to be covert as he glanced in their direction around the bookshelves, he was doing a miserable job at it.

"He's lurking again," Jane informed her friend with a giggle.

Lily rolled her eyes and looked up just as the boy ducked behind the nearest row of books. "We know you're there, Potter," Lily said with an annoyed sigh. "Stop being so creepy and come out."

Unabashed, James Potter emerged from the shelter of the stacks, a debonair grin flashing on his white teeth. "Hello, ladies," he said, strutting towards them like an overgrown peacock.

"Are you ever going to leave me alone, Potter?" Lily groaned, shaking her head with disgust.

"Are you ever going to go out with me?" he replied quickly with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Lily looked positively exasperated and was about to decline James' advances for what must have been the fiftieth time since they'd arrived at Hogwarts when, as if on cue, Sirius Black burst towards them. There was a spring to his step that hadn't been there before, and he was struggling to conceal laughter. Indeed, he had the undeniable expression of someone who was quite pleased with himself. Lily, Jane, and James all exchanged perplexed glances, unsure what to think of Sirius' demeanor. It was James who spoke, though, vocalizing the question that all of them were wondering.

"What's going on, Sirius?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh, just giving Snivellus Snape a taste of his own medicine," Sirius said smugly.

"What do you mean?" Lily asked, her brow creased with curiosity.

"Let's just say that we won't have to worry about Snivelly snooping around anymore," he smirked.

"Why? What did you do to him?" Jane asked sharply, her fury instantly mounting at the childish pranks the two boys were always playing on each other. Something told her, however, that this prank was different from the others – he was getting more pleasure from it and being more secretive about the details than he had been with anything else he'd done.

Sirius, however, declined to answer and instead surrendered to the laughter he'd tried to suppress. He was so entertained by whatever trick he had just managed to play on Severus that he seemed very nearly delirious with enjoyment of it.

"What did you do, Sirius?" Jane asked more firmly, accentuating every syllable to stress its importance as she stood up indignantly at the table.

"Nothing much – I just made sure that Moony has a little company tonight," he replied breathlessly, his eyes glinting wildly.

James immediately paled, knowing instantly what Sirius had done. It was a prank the two of them had jokingly talked about playing on Severus. He hadn't known Sirius was ever actually going to go through with it. If successful, they would certainly be expelled from Hogwarts; if successful, they would likely be facing Azkaban.

"Sirius, tell me you didn't!" he gasped, clutching his friend by the shoulders and trying to shake sense into him.

Sirius only laughed all the harder, though, as James, his faced creased with panic, abandoned him and raced for the door.

"James, what's wrong?" Lily begged urgently as they watched him go.

"I can't explain – there isn't time!" James called over his shoulder.

* * *

"_Lumos!_" Severus whispered. 

As to be expected, the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow was very dark, narrow and stuffy. It was only by the faint light of his wand that Severus was able to navigate it at all. The scent of damp earth filled Severus' nostrils as he walked. He wasn't sure where, exactly, he was heading, but he was fairly certain that, contrary to the assurances of Sirius Black, it was _not_ towards Gryffindor Tower.

"I _knew_ that shite-for-brains was lying!" he seethed.

A faint light glowing at the end of the tunnel caught his eye then, and Severus edged onward with curiosity. It seemed that he was nearly there – wherever _there_ was, of course.

"Snape, get back here!" called a voice from behind him suddenly.

Severus whirled around, his dark hair swishing about his ears, to find himself nearly colliding with the muscular, spectacled form of James Potter. He stared at his nemesis with disdain.

"Sod off, Potter!" Severus hissed at once, raising his wand in preparation to hex his unwelcome visitor.

James stepped back and raised his hands in an act of surrender. "If there is any rational bone your body, you'll put that wand down!" he begged. "I'm not here to cause problems!"

"Like hell you aren't," Severus sneered, continuing to brandish his wand threateningly.

"Look, I don't know what Sirius told you, and there's no time to explain, but if we don't get out of here, there's going to be trouble," James urged, his eyes pleading.

"You bet there'll be trouble," Severus retorted. "I don't think Dumbledore will be too pleased when I tell him his favourite Gryffindor broke school rules, sneaking out after hours."

"Snape, we haven't got time for these games!" James yelled at him. "You can tell Dumbledore if you want – I'll tell him myself, but will you stop being such a git for once and trust me?! We've got to get out of here. _Now!_"

But it was too late. A bloodcurdling howl reverberated from the end of the tunnel. Severus raised his wand and jerked his head just in time to see the form of a wolf advancing on them – racing towards them with his teeth bared to kill, but as the wolf approached, Severus was consumed with a fleeting moment of recognition before the panic set in: It wasn't a wolf at all; the beast was a _were_wolf.

"Remus, no!" James shouted, pushing his way past Severus.

"Holy Hecate, it's Lupin!" Severus gasped, the horror of this revelation gripping him. It was the last thing he remembered thinking before James withdrew his wand.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" the spectacled boy cried.

And Severus hit the ground.

* * *

When he woke up in the infirmary the next day, the first thing Severus Snape was conscious of was the throbbing in his head. He had been perfectly fine, of course, save the bump on his skull from where he'd hit the ground when Potter had Petrified him, and Madam Pomfrey awarded him a clean bill of health later that morning. Albus Dumbledore, though, was a completely different force to reckon with. The headmaster was not pleased to learn of the incident – neither of Sirius' provocation, nor of Severus' infringement on multiple school rules regarding curfew and the Whomping Willow. However, Dumbledore seemed even more concerned with the ramifications the prank held for Remus Lupin. 

"Undoubtedly, Mr. Snape, you have worked out Mr. Lupin's secret, have you not?" asked the headmaster quietly as Severus sat in his office that afternoon awaiting judgment for his crimes.

"Yes, sir," Severus replied tersely. "He's a werewolf."

"Severus, I know that the admittance of werewolves to Hogwarts is not considered… er… conventional," Dumbledore continued. "But I must ask you to keep Remus Lupin's secret. The revelation of this detail could prove most destructive to his future, you know."

Severus opened his mouth to protest. Not reveal Lupin's secret? He was a bloody werewolf, for Merlin's sake?! He was a menace and a danger; he didn't deserve to be within a ten meter radius of this school, and what's more, Dumbledore knew it – he had broken trust with the parents of all the students under his care in allowing a werewolf among them. And now the headmaster was asking his student to lie – it was a lie of omission, granted, but it was a lie nonetheless. A wave of fury swept over Severus as he glared indignantly at the older wizard.

Seeing the reservations of the boy before him, Dumbledore hunched pensively over his desk and pressed the tips of his elegant, long fingers together. He peered expectantly at Severus over the rims of his half-moon spectacles.

"As I recall, Severus," the headmaster said weightily, cutting the silence with his gentle cadence, "you, too, were given a chance to study here that you would not have otherwise received if not for the bending of a few rules, were you not?"

Severus' mouth gaped. His throat felt suddenly dry, and he stared, speechless, at the headmaster. Severus knew very well that had his mother not lied under oath before the Wizengamot nine years ago in an effort to protect him, he would not have been able to attend Hogwarts either, and his future would have been just as bleak as Lupin's. Dumbledore, though, had broken the rules for Severus, just as he had broken them for Lupin. Indeed, they had reached a stalemate.

"Yes, sir," Severus reluctantly replied at last. "I won't tell."

"You're a wise young man, Severus," Dumbledore replied, easing back in his chair. His eyes glimmered, and he smiled warmly as he raised the candy dish that had been sitting on his desk and offered it in the direction of the younger wizard. "Sherbet lemon?"

* * *

It could have been worse, Severus realised as he left Dumbledore's office after a few sherbet lemons and a little small talk. The headmaster had been reluctant to award Severus any reprimand for the events of the previous evening, and he'd agreed to be as vague as possible in the letter he would send home to Darius explaining why his son was returning home for summer holidays nursing wounds. Of course, exactly how James Potter had saved Severus remained a mystery to him. He'd been Petrified, a state he was most furious about having been subjected to, and consequentially, the exact events were an enigma to him. When he'd questioned the headmaster, Dumbledore relayed some imprecise story – something about how after James after Petrified him, he'd dragged him from the tunnel before Lupin caught up with them. Severus, however, was not convinced regarding the authenticity of these facts, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he grew – angrier that James had saved his life, and angrier that he couldn't even remember it. 

He would never forgive James Potter for either of these grievances.

* * *

_A/N: Regarding Tenebrus, I'm assuming that thestrals have a fairly long life span, as we know most magical creatures typically do. Furthermore, what I imagine to have happened in the Willow is that James saved Severus by assuming his Animagus form in order to defend them against werewolf!Lupin. Since Snape doesn't seem to be aware that James/Sirius/Peter were Animagi in canon, I had no choice but to leave him unconscious for this scene and, later, ever-suspicious regarding what actually happened. Finally, thanks once again to Ozma for her amazing beta-reading!_


	11. Dumbledore's Warning

Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 10: Dumbledore's Warning

* * *

"_Avada Kedavra!_" Severus murmured lackadaisically as he aimed his wand. He watched as his victim, a renegade fly, instantly tumbled, lifeless, to the window ledge.

It was the most stifling summer the hook-nosed youth could remember – too hot to even sleep, and so he laid alone in his darkened bedroom listening to how the silence was cut by the buzzing of a few wayward insects and tormenting himself with unpleasant memories instead. Severus thought about the day his mother had been sentenced to Azkaban, about the night he'd first raised his wand to defend himself against Darius. He thought about the malevolence in James Potter's eyes as he pondered removing his underpants after their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., and he thought about Sirius Black and the night he'd sent him to the Whomping Willow.

At least some good would come of nearly being killed by a werewolf, Severus decided as he raised his wand to another fly: surely the whole lot of the self-proclaimed Marauders would be expelled from Hogwarts for the potentially lethal prank. He was determined that all of them be expelled, of course, as the more he thought about that night, the more Severus became convinced that each of troublesome foursome must have had a hand in the hoax. Otherwise, how else would James Potter have known what Sirius Black had done? Better still, if Severus was lucky enough, he might even return to Hogwarts to find that Sirius Black, James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew had not only been expelled but were imprisoned in Azkaban. After all, attempted murder was a serious crime that even the sage and patient Dumbledore could not overlook; the headmaster would have to expose the Gryffindors to the proper authorities.

Content with this knowledge, Severus made his way to Platform 9 ¾ that September to commence his final year at Hogwarts. As he settled into a seat between Jane Swizzle and Evan Rosier, he could scarcely help but smile at the idea that he would no longer have to worry about constantly being on guard against surprise hexes from James Potter, that he would no longer have to worry about Sirius Black staring after Jane, and that he would no longer have to worry about being publicly humiliated for the amusement of either of them. Best of all, the sallow youth could afford himself the pleasure of gloating for years to come about how he had finally managed to best James Haughty Potter. It was the closest sensation to happiness that Severus recalled feeling since the moment his mother told him they were leaving Darius when he was a child.

Upon returning to Hogwarts, though, Severus quickly learned that he was, in fact, quite wrong: neither James Potter nor Sirius Black, Remus Lupin nor Peter Pettigrew had been expelled. In fact, it scarcely seemed to him that they had been punished at all. Indeed, the headmaster had determined that the prank, while foolish, had not been intended to result in Severus' death, and as a result, he had assigned Sirius Black numerous detentions as punishment rather than expel him. In addition, Professor McGonagall, whom time had dictated Severus could always rely upon for her fairness, had seen fit to deduct fifty points from Gryffindor. McGonagall's intervention might have been enough to pacify Severus if it wasn't for the fact that Dumbledore promptly saw fit to tip the scales once again by awarding James Potter sixty points for his valor in delivering Severus from the hoax that would have invariably lead to Severus' gory and untimely demise.

Distressingly, though, this was not all Dumbledore did to reward James for preventing Severus' death in the Whomping Willow, as the hook-nosed young man discovered at the start-of-term feast in the Great Hall that evening.

"There was a huge row, and Sirius just left," Regulus Black was regaling the Slytherin table as he helped himself to some chipolatas. "When we found out he was staying with those dirty Mudblood-lovers the Potters, Mum was so furious she went and blasted his name off the family tree that very night, screaming about how he was a 'stain of dishonour' on the family. It was wicked!" The dark-haired aristocrat added the last bit with eyes wide and grin mischievous, just to indicate exactly how much pleasure he derived from his older brother's misfortune. "Snape, you should've been there," Regulus informed him, alluding to the overt animosity he knew Severus bore for Sirius.

Severus returned Regulus' knowing grin, of course, and added a chortle of twisted glee to think of Sirius Black disowned in such a vile fashion. "Completely cut off, is he?" he asked, his lips curling with malicious amusement. Perhaps justice did find a way of prevailing despite Dumbledore's propensity to avoid it.

"Completely," Regulus confirmed. "Mum swears that any family member who so much as talks to him will be disowned as well."

"As if any of us would want to talk to that prat to begin with," Bellatrix Black chimed in sarcastically across the table.

"There's one of those filthy blood-traitors now," Evan Rosier said accusatorily with a nod in the direction of James Potter, who was making his way to a seat at the Gryffindor table across the hall.

There was something different about Potter, Severus immediately noticed. If possible, his step seemed even more arrogant than the previous year, and he was seating himself beside that disgusting Muggle-born Lily Evans. Contrary to the evidence of Lily's loathing for James presented during their previous years at school, she didn't seem to mind the spectacled Gryffindor's company this evening; in fact, she seemed quite pleased to see him.

But it wasn't just James Potter's cocky stride or the fact that Lily Evans blushed profusely when he smiled at her. There was something more… something about the way he looked – new spectacles, perhaps… or maybe a slightly different haircut. Upon closer examination, however, Severus determined that James didn't have new glasses and that his hair was still as tousled as it ever was. It was then that he saw it: there, pinned proudly to the breast of James Potter's robes was a shiny badge, a brilliantly colored one bearing elaborately embroidered lettering. "HB," it read.

Head Boy.

James Potter was head boy. It wasn't fair – simply wasn't fair. At the same time, it was so much more than unfair; it was downright scandalous. James Potter hadn't even been a bloody prefect; his reputation for mischief had ruled out such an option long ago. He wasn't even an especially good student; he chose to expend his talents on childish pranks instead. Worse yet, James hadn't even proven himself particularly responsible; the number of detentions he had served over the years illustrated all too well his careless disregard for school rules. In fact, there was only one explanation Severus could think of to justify why the headmaster had elected to name James Head Boy: it was his reward, Severus supposed, for having saved his life last spring.

At this realisation, a heavy flush instantly suffused the normally pallid cheeks of Severus Snape. He sat, staring, his eyes narrowed to murderous slits as he beheld his enemy in complete disbelief. The simultaneous shock and horror that registered across his side of the Slytherin table corroborated his disgust.

"Would you believe it?!" hissed Rodolphus Lestrange, who had managed to tear his eyes away from Bellatrix long enough to behold James Potter's badge as he passed by. "That sodding wanker!"

* * *

While they may have loathed James Potter for his arrogance and the overt affection the headmaster bore him, Rodolphus and Regulus, Bellatrix and Evan did not know the exact details of Severus' near-fatal run in with Marauders the previous spring. Consequentially, they could not understand the depths to which Severus hated James Potter, to which the Gryffindor's appointment as Head Boy wounded him.

Jane, however, had been there that terrible night, and although she did not know that Remus Lupin was a werewolf, she had a good idea that Sirius Black's prank had somehow nearly resulted in Severus' death. Because she knew this, Severus turned to her for consolation the following afternoon as they sat by the lake, where, like numerous other students, they were taking advantaged of the warmth of one of the last pleasant days of the season.

"I nearly die and Dumbledore _rewards_ my would-be murderer! Potter only saved me to save his own neck, and this is how he is repaid – made bloody Head Boy!" Severus sputtered. "Is this what my life is worth – so little that my near-death doesn't even merit a suspension?!"

"Of course not, Severus," Jane tried to comfort. "Dumbledore must have had his reasons. Maybe James' appointment to Head Boy had nothing to do with what happened at the Willow."

Severus only smirked doubtfully, and Jane shrugged her shoulders. There was no use trying to convince him that perhaps Sirius Black and James Potter hadn't actually tried to kill him, that it might have been a genuine accident: Severus was too stubborn, and he had had too many disastrous encounters with the Marauders to believe the lot of them capable of anything short of the most heinous of deeds. In all honesty, Jane couldn't blame him for his anger, and she did not see fit to deprive him of it. Instead, she listened patiently and waited until his rage had run its course. Time had taught her that such was the best way to handle an impassioned Severus Snape.

"It probably would have been better if I'd died that night," Severus bitterly resolved in the end. Cruel as his words were, he was merely echoing the sentiment that Darius had expressed when he'd received Dumbledore's owl regarding the incident. As promised, the headmaster had been oblique in his explanation: without directly lying, he'd somehow managed to portray Severus' run-in with the Whomping Willow as an honest accident. Fortunately, Darius hadn't questioned the incident further but was content to ridicule and berate his son instead. "No one seems to care one way or another anyway," he added moodily.

"Severus, don't _ever_ say that," Jane immediately scolded, her sympathy turned to sudden somberness. "If something had happened to you… I don't even want to think about that…" She paused, her voice trailing off uncomfortably and concluding with a sigh of distress. She looked at him weightily as she softly added, "The truth is, the entire time you were at the Willow, all I could think was how badly I wanted to see you again – how I regretted that I'd never told you how I feel... that I never told you… that I… love you… that I've always loved you…"

Caught off guard, Severus turned to her sharply and raised his eyebrows skeptically, as though to question her. In all honesty, he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that word spoken in reference to him. It had been his mother, he supposed, who last told him she cared about him, and that had been ten years ago. Since then, he'd almost forgotten that terms of affection existed – let alone that they could be applied to him – and so he could scarcely conceal his doubt at Jane's revelation.

"You… _love_… me?" he stammered in disbelief.

Jane merely nodded as she slipped her hand into his. "The fact of the matter is, Severus, you're not the easiest person in the world to like," she replied with an amused smile. "You're sarcastic, elitist, and proud. You have no social skills whatsoever, and your hair is _always_ in need of a good washing – and those are just some of your _better_ qualities... But, despite it all, I love you."

Flabbergasted. That was the word that, years later, Severus Snape would apply to his state of mind when recalling his reaction to hearing her utter those words. But that was only half of it – what dumbfounded him even more was his reply. "I… I love you, too, Jane," he'd whispered, the words slipping from his lips without premeditation.

It was perfectly logical, after all, that he should love her: they'd grown up together, played together, gone to school together. But being in love with Jane Swizzle wasn't how Severus expected it to be. There was no need for trite confessions of adoration or passionate stolen moments. Instead, loving Jane was innate, something automatic to him, something he did without conscious effort – like breathing or the beating of his heart. It was, as Jane had said herself, as though he had always loved her. Perhaps such is why Severus hadn't noticed before that he indeed bore such feelings towards Jane, but now that he had been forced to confront them, he realised that they were completely and unmistakably true.

The admission of their mutual affections, however, was not quite enough to distract Severus from the scandal of James Potter's appointment to Head Boy – especially when said Head Boy promptly saw fit to make his presence in the scene abundantly clear.

"Having a romantic afternoon, Snivelly?" he mocked as he walked by.

Severus hardly needed to look up to match the voice with its speaker; he'd have recognised James Potter's condescending tenor anywhere. He turned his head nonetheless, though, to see the spectacled Gryffindor standing over him as he walked by with his usual cohorts. There was a smirk on his face, and his Head Boy badge glistened majestically in the sunlight – glistened a bit too much, actually, for Severus to ignore its presence on his robes.

"So what if I am? What are you going to do? Take points from Slytherin and Ravenclaw for it?" Severus hissed, rising to his feet defensively. He glared savagely at James, his eyes boring a veritable hole into that badge. "I see that this is the reward for attempted murder these days – being hailed a hero and made Head Boy. Maybe next time you try to kill me, you'll be named the bloody Minister of Magic!"

"I didn't try to kill you, Snape," James retorted. "And last time I checked, you wouldn't be standing here right now if it wasn't for me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Severus spat. "I can defend myself."

James chuckled. "Of course you can, Snivelly," he scoffed sarcastically as he turned back to Peter Pettigrew, who was laughing hysterically at James' allusion to how the years had proven Severus anything but capable of defending himself. After all, the hook-nosed boy had failed to defend himself the morning of Quidditch trials their second year; he'd failed the afternoon of their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.; and he'd failed just a few months ago in the Willow as well. Severus' suggestion to the contrary seemed rather like a joke to them.

The irony hadn't escaped Severus, either. Their cruel laughter rang in his ears as he watched them walk away and continue down the banks of the lake. He felt a scarlet heat flood his face, coursing through his body as they mocked him. Once again, Potter had managed to scorn him – had done so in public, no less – had done so before their classmates, before the impressionable younger students… before Jane. The humiliation seemed too much to bear, and so Severus squared back his shoulders indignantly and raised his wand, aiming directly for James' back.

"_Locomotor Mortis!_" he cried.

In an instant, James' knees locked mid-stride, and with a groan, he tumbled to the ground, his face smashing hard into the grass, cracking his glasses and lower lip. Stunned as he tried to make sense of what had happened to him, James attempted to hoist himself back to his feet. Quickly realising the futility of his efforts, however, he managed only to roll over onto his back.

"You'll pay for that!" James barked as his eyes locked with those of his attacker. He hurriedly reached into the confines of his robes, searching for his wand, but Severus was already thinking ahead.

"_Expelliarmus!_" the hook-nosed young man shrieked, and James Potter's wand promptly flew from his grasp and across the green.

The following moments passed by in a surreal haze of wrath for Severus. He remembered there were gasps of horrified astonishment from the bystanders who had gathered to watch. He faintly recalled Sirius Black's attempts to defend James and how he had countered each one with a timely Shield Charm, and Severus dimly recollected Jane leaping to her feet and trying to stop him.

"Severus, no!" she pleaded, tugging on his arm in attempt to alter his aim. "This won't help anything!"

But mostly, Severus remembered the fear in Potter's eye as he wielded his wand menacingly at him and cursed him between streams of profanity.

"_Contunderus!_" Severus shrieked time and again.

It wasn't an Unforgivable. In fact, it was a curse his father had used against him numerous times in punishment when he was younger, and it was precisely because Severus knew so well the bruising, blurring pain of this curse that he derived such perverse pleasure from watching the way James Potter's face contorted in agony as the spell swept over his body.

"No more…" the latter gasped. "Please!"

There was a foreign life, an alien energy which consumed Severus, though, and although something within him told him he should probably cease his torture of James Potter, he found himself unable to do so. It was only when the spectacled boy was spitting blood that Severus lowered his wand. He looked from the crumpled, bruised form of his enemy to his own hands – the hands which had produced this pain – as though with a stranger's eyes, as though it was just now occurring to him what he had done. Trembling, Severus collapsed to his knees, disarmed by his own self-loathing. It was then that Sirius Black finally managed to hex him.

"_Stupefy!_" the dark-haired aristocrat called.

Professor McGonagall racing across the lawn towards them was the last thing Severus saw before he hit the ground.

* * *

"I think I'm turning into my father," Severus whispered that evening in the hospital wing. He had regained consciousness to find Jane seated beside him, holding his hand. She hadn't said anything at first, only stared at him imploringly, her wide, rich eyes silently probing him, searching for an answer, an explanation for his violent behavior by the lake.

"You know that's not true, Severus," she replied softly. "You could never be him. You've seen what he's done, you're smarter than to repeat his mistakes. You're better than that."

Severus hesitated, unconvinced by her reassurance, unconvinced because he alone knew the exact strength of the hatred that had consumed him as he raised his wand to James Potter. "I could have killed him, Jane," he explained. He paused uneasily then and avoided her gaze. He couldn't bear to witness the horror that he knew would undoubtedly register on her face at his following confession. "I wanted to kill him, too," he told her, his voice barely audible.

But Jane only squeezed his hand tighter. "You didn't kill him, though, Severus," she soothed. "You stopped. You were angry, but you still knew enough to stop. That's what matters."

He nodded and tried to believe her, but when Madam Pomfrey shooed Jane away moments later in order to examine Severus, he remained apprehensive. Not even the Draft of Peace the nurse made him consume could entirely ease away his torment. Fortunately, as she scuttled away again – presumably to attend to Potter, whom Severus knew must have been just beds away from him – the pallid boy was distracted by a pair of voices reverberating from the far end of the hospital wing.

"It was my own fault, Minerva. If I hadn't named James Head Boy, this never would have happened. The boy was bound to be distraught – anyone would have been in his position, after all. Severus and James have never gotten along, and I fear that I have made the situation between them worse."

"It doesn't excuse what he has done, though, Albus. Nor is Potter excused for what he has done to him over the years, of course. I fear for the both of them – two of the most talented students here. Merlin only knows what they're capable of doing to one another."

The headmaster and deputy headmistress may have been trying to speak in hushed tones, but in ominous silence of the infirmary, their voices carried well, and Severus scarcely needed to try to distinguish their words.

"At least James will be all right. Poppy has already administered a Clotting Solution to stop the internal bleeding. Please send an owl home to his parents while I check on Severus."

"And Mr. Snape? Shall I send an owl to him as well?"

Dumbledore paused thoughtfully. "Not yet. The less Darius Snape knows, the better," he replied. "I fear what he might do to Severus as punishment – the two are not unalike in their dispositions, as you may recall. I'll speak to Severus myself."

"Of course, Albus," was the reply.

There was a silence then, and Severus supposed that Professor McGonagall must have left the hospital wing. Moments later, the curtain surrounding his bed was pulled back, and the headmaster's soft, shimmering eyes peered at him over his half-moon spectacles. "You've woken up, I see," he said. His tone was surprisingly gentle, and there was an odd hint of sympathy in his eye.

Not even this sympathy, though, could soften Severus. Bitterly, he crossed his arms about his chest in what he hoped appeared a resentful fashion and avoided the headmaster's gaze. Dumbledore let out a tired sigh as he seated himself in a chair beside the bed upon which the pallid young man rested, the same chair Jane had sat in not long ago.

"I'm not going to lecture you, Severus," he said quietly.

A fire burned behind Severus' eyes at the idea that the headmaster – the man whose very leniency had precipitated the events of the afternoon – should presume to moralize him. _It's a good thing – I don't care much for what you have to say_, he thought. The headmaster nodded his head as though he understood Severus' unspoken animosity, and for a fleeting instant, the younger wizard had the faint impression that Dumbledore had peered into the confines of his mind with Legilimency. This suspicion was confirmed with the headmaster's next words.

"I don't blame you for your anger, Severus," the white-haired wizard told him. "You must be feeling very betrayed by me for making James Head Boy after what happened to you last year."

"What would _you_ know about what I'm feeling?" Severus grumbled under his breath.

Gracefully, Dumbledore ignored his comment. The young man had a point, after all. "Unfortunately, it's too late for me to apologise to you for my role in what has happened," he continued. "I cannot undo the past and stop what happened to you at the Willow, and I cannot unmake my decision regarding Head Boy."

The headmaster paused then and peered at Severus intently. "I must, however, urge you to control your anger," he informed the younger wizard earnestly. "I fear that unless you are careful with your emotions, Severus, you will find yourself vulnerable to performing deeper, darker deeds than what occurred this afternoon by the lake. You could hurt yourself or others… you may even find yourself vulnerable to those who would prey on your frustration and exploit it for their own benefit."

Although he would eventually understand the wisdom in the headmaster's words, Severus didn't fully understand Dumbledore's warning at the time. Instead, he turned increasingly sour. Despite the headmaster's initial pledge not to reprimand, this sounded rather like a lecture to him, a lecture he was loath to tolerate.

"Potter and his friends tried to kill me!" Severus reminded the headmaster testily. "How else was I to react?!"

The headmaster nodded in what Severus could not tell was understanding or condescension. "James Potter may be many things you are not fond of, Severus, but he is not a murderer, and contrary to the frustration you felt this afternoon when he ridiculed you, you are not a murderer either."

Severus looked up at the headmaster sharply. Once again, it was as though Dumbledore had known his thoughts, his feelings – that he had been completely and undeniably out of control by the lake and that he was quite convinced he could have done James Potter lethal harm. His horror intensified, though, as the headmaster continued to speak.

"The fact of the matter is that whether you like it or not, Severus, when two wizards are forced together because of dire circumstances – most commonly the pain of death – a powerful connection is usually formed between them," Dumbledore said. "The night James Potter pulled you from the Willow, such a magical bond was forged between the two of you. Your fates are, I'm afraid, entwined."

Severus paled and hesitated as the headmaster raised his eyebrows and gave Severus a meaningful gaze. "You mean to say… that I… I owe Potter a life debt?" he stammered. His voice emerged strangled and unfamiliar, as though he was choking or gagging on his own words.

Much to Severus' instantaneous dread, the headmaster raised his eyebrows and nodded in solemn confirmation. Severus flushed furiously, feeling suddenly as though he would rather have died than live indebted to his enemy. His mind flooded with questions, desperate, aching uncertainties regarding the forging of this obligation, the terms of its satisfaction, and the consequences of not fulfilling it. He gaped at Dumbledore, begging for the answers. There was a pleading in his ebony eyes as though silently beseeching the headmaster to make it not true, to abolish the debt. Such relief was, of course, something that even the sagest of wizards did not have the power to do, and so, as abruptly as the headmaster had informed Severus of his debt to James Potter, Dumbledore made to leave the young wizard to ponder of the meaning of this bond.

"Remember what I said about controlling your anger, Severus." Dumbledore said as he rose from the chair beside Severus' bed. "Remember my warning." As Albus Dumbledore left the hospital wing, though, he had a distinct suspicion that his advice to Severus had come years too late.

It was only after the headmaster had left that Severus saw the book he had left behind. Sitting on the stand by the boy's bed, it was an elderly volume, leather bound with yellowed pages and a careworn spine. _A Beginner's Guide to Occlumency_, the faded gold lettering on the cover read. He had only a vague notion of what Occlumency was, of how it was a defense against Legilimency, and so curiosity, compounded with a general reverence for written word, drove Severus to take the book in his hands, to skim through it. From the first few lines of the text, the meaning behind the headmaster's gift was immediately apparent:

_Although virtually unpractised today, Occlumency is an ancient and useful branch of magic that relies on extreme control of emotion and memory. So great is the calming effect of Occlumency that not only is it useful against the invasion of a Legilimens, but it has also been widely prescribed in treatment of psychological ailments_.

The headmaster intended for Severus to use Occlumency as a means of managing his apparently unruly emotions – emotions similar to those that caused his outburst today by the lake. At this realisation, a furious flush flooded the young man's face. Blood burning with humiliation and resentment, he tossed the book aside.

* * *

Life debt or not, Occlumency or not, boys will be boys, and Dumbledore's warning effectively went unheeded. Indeed, James Potter and Severus Snape resumed their habit of cursing each other with renewed vehemence for the rest of the school year. James had done so out of retaliation, and Severus had done so out of spite. Regardless their reasons, though, it quickly became evident that that afternoon by the lake was merely the precursor to the incessant hexing that would mark their final year at Hogwarts. This cursing recommenced with the Jelly-Legs Jinx which James had thrown in Severus' direction a few days later in the corridor before Defense Against the Dark Arts. While leaving Ancient Runes that afternoon, the hook-nosed boy had retaliated with a slug curse. There were Babbling Curses and Insect Jinxes, Bat-Bogey Hexes and Trip Jinxes to follow, each one cast surreptitiously so as to avoid being caught.

Whether or not the headmaster knew how Severus had disregarded his advice, the pallid young man did not know. He did, however, suspect that the Potions Master was suspicious of the Conjunctivitis Curse he had cast on James during class one particular afternoon. The tousled-haired Gryffindor's eyes had become so irritated that he hadn't been able to see the hellebore stalks he was slicing and nearly severed a finger or two from his hand instead before being sent to Madam Pomfrey. After class, Professor Cauderon summoned Severus to his office.

"Mr. Snape, a word, please," he informed the younger wizard tersely.

Severus had held his chin high in preparation to defend himself from accusation as he made his way through the entrails of the castle to Professor Cauderon's office later that afternoon. He was not surprised to find the Potions Master sitting at his desk, poring over some papers. What did surprise him, however, was the way the older wizard beheld him when he entered, an odd smile playing at the corners of his white goatee. Surely, the professor had not called him here to lecture or punish him.

"Have a seat, Severus," he said to the pallid young man before him, Summoning a chair from across the room. "Have you given much thought to your future, Mr. Snape?" he asked as Severus slid into the surprisingly comfortable seat.

"I expect my father will want me to work at the Ministry," he told him, relieved not to be facing an interrogation regarding the sorry state of James Potter's eyes. "Snapes always work at the Ministry. I'm not sure what department yet, but I'm well qualified for a number of positions – assuming I pass N.E.W.T.s, that is."

Professor Cauderon nodded pensively. "Undoubtedly you will excel in your N.E.W.T.s," he said quietly. He sighed then and, folding his hands in his lap, looked down his narrow nose at his student. "But what do _you_ want to do?" he asked meaningfully.

Severus hesitated and frowned, his dark eyes darting nervously across the room as though checking for a sign of Darius before making his confession. "Research," he mumbled at last. "Potions research. I just want to study and experiment. But that's not prestigious enough a profession for a Snape. My father would never permit it."

Bicarius Cauderon raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he asked. "Perhaps I shall have to change his mind then."

"You don't know my father," Severus scoffed, a darkness sifting through his ebony eyes at the mention of Darius Snape.

"This is true," the Potions Master admitted. "However, I _do_ know Arsenius Jigger." He examined carefully the sallow face of the young man before him, watching his reaction for a sign of recognition at the mention of the name. He was not, he quickly discovered, disappointed.

"The most influential Potions Master of our era," Severus murmured, eyes wide. "He's brilliant – absolutely bloody brilliant."

The professor nodded. "He is," he agreed. "And Master Jigger also happens to be an old school chum of mine. The other day, I received this from him," Professor Cauderon added, indicating the topmost piece of parchment on the stack atop his desk. "It's a letter informing me that he has been awarded a contract to write a potions book and that he is in great need of a research assistant if there is someone I can recommend to him. The job he proposes is not one of glamour. It will require some tedious work, but I believe it will indulge your natural curiosity for potions. And I think it goes without saying that association with one of the greatest wizards of the age is scarcely a situation your father would disapprove of."

Severus faltered, positively reeling at Professor Cauderon's words. Working with Arsenius Jigger was an honour he could scarcely fathom, and to say he was flattered by the suggestion was a gross understatement. "You… you're recommending _me_?" he whispered in disbelief. "Not James Potter? Not Ankur Patil? Not Jane Swizzle?"

A mischievous twinkle flickered in the Potions Master's eyes. "Between you and me, Severus, I'd as soon recommend a hippogriff to Arsenius Jigger as I would James Potter," he chuckled. "And I believe that you know as well as I do that Miss Swizzle has her heart set on St. Mungo's. You should, however, be forewarned that the pay is not exorbitant. Nonetheless, it should be enough should you decide to move out on your own… or even ask a certain young lady for her hand in marriage."

Professor Cauderon added the last bit under his breath, and Severus flushed when he realised the implication behind his professor's words: he was suggesting that Severus propose to Jane – a positively ridiculous notion, considering that Severus Snape had just been offered the opportunity to study under the greatest Potions Master of the age. Too overwhelmed with the enormity of Cauderon's proposition, though, Severus neglected to acknowledge the comment. Instead, his mind raced with the possibilities. At last he had been awarded an honour James Potter had been denied. He would be able to continue his studies and to mingle with greatness. Most importantly, however, he had earned this achievement on his own, proven himself via the merit of his own talents rather than Darius Snape and his Ministry alliances.

"Are we in agreement, then, that you accept the position?" Professor Cauderon asked, although the uncharacteristic brightness in the young wizard's eyes had already told him his answer.

A nod was all the speechless Severus could manage.

"Excellent, Mr. Snape," the Potions Master replied with a smile. "I cannot think of a more worthy candidate."


	12. A Matter of Proof

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 11: A Matter of Proof... Or, Prelude to a Death Eater

* * *

Before Severus could begin his research with Arsenius Jigger he still had an obstacle to hurdle: Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests. As their name implied, N.E.W.T.s proved to be precisely that: nastily exhausting. He remembered O.W.L.s two years ago, the mania that ensued as pressure built upon the students. If that had been stressful, N.E.W.T.s were downright cataclysmic. As June approached, a general atmosphere of chaos overtook the classrooms and dormitories of Seventh Years across Hogwarts castle. Students regularly favored parchment over pillows during the evening hours, substituted Memory Potion for pumpkin juice at mealtime, and resorted to textbooks instead of Gobstones between classes. Only Evan Rosier seemed to be taking the examinations in stride. 

"Going for an 'O' in everything, Snape?" the sandy-haired young wizard teased Severus close to the end of term. He had woken to find his hook-nosed best friend in the same state in which he had left him the night before: his books and notes and charts of runes and stars and potions ingredients consuming a table in the Slytherin common room as he studied maniacally.

"If you picked up a book every now and then, you might pass, too," a decidedly annoyed Severus reminded him. "One night of studying wouldn't kill you, you know."

"Oh, I studied last night – just not from books," Rosier smirked. He paused, and that trademark devilish twinkle in his eye glittered with increased brightness. "I was studying Florence Feather's anatomy instead."

Rosier may have teased, but the truth of the matter was that Severus was indeed striving for an Outstanding mark in each subject. He might have earned such marks, too, if it wasn't for his Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T. As to be expected, the written examination went well. D.A.D.A. had always come naturally him, and his hand flew over his parchment as he anxiously wrote his essays in his tight, tiny handwriting. It was the practical portion of the test, however, which proved a bit more of a challenge. It wasn't that the practical examination was as much difficult, though, as it was ill-fated, and as Severus stood before the stout, tight-lipped exam proctor in the isolated corridor of the castle designated for the exam, his doom rapidly became apparent.

The headmaster had never liked that the Wizarding Examinations Authority required N.E.W.T.-level students to defend themselves against a real dementor, and as Severus raised his wand to the horrible, hooded creature before him, he quickly decided that this was one issue he and Albus Dumbledore could agree upon. The world was awhirl, and he stumbled back as the memories – the worst ones, of course, of which there were many to choose from – rushed around him. It was his mother, though, who haunted him the most. She was calling out his name as she was sentenced to Azkaban, chained to that sadistic chair in that bleak courtroom.

"Severus!" Circe Snape had screamed. "Mummy loves you! Mummy will always love you!"

"No!" Severus roared as though in effort to drown her cries with his own. He clenched his teeth and threw back his shoulders with determination as he lifted his wand and thrust it in the direction of the dementor.

The sallow skinned young man had always had a bit of a hard time producing a Patronus, as to do so relied entirely upon recollecting a happy memory. The sad fact of the matter was that Severus Snape simply didn't have many jovial moments upon which to reflect. The closest he could come was the time he'd spent with his mother in Tuscany, but even those glad times had been sullied by the reentry of Darius into his life. However, there was one thing that made him smile – one thing that had always made him smile – one thing Darius had not yet managed to steal from him: Jane. And so, Severus envisioned her as he opened his mouth to utter the incantation.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" he called.

A wisp of silvery mist emerged from the end of his wand and curled into a hazy form of a hawk. Severus' ill-formed Patronus hovered in the air as he tacitly willed it to charge forward like the bird of prey it was supposed to be. The dementor hesitated but resumed his advance moments later when the hawk had faded to little more than what appeared to be a light fog. Severus swallowed hard, Circe Snape's sobs ringing in his ears, and he raised his wand desperately once again.

"_Expecto Pat – _"

But Severus stopped short and was stunned to find his wand falling from his grasp. The dementor drew closer still as the panic-stricken young wizard fumbled to pick up his felled wand. It was then that Severus noticed it: his slender, long-fingered hands were suddenly no longer very thin at all. Instead, they were bloated, swelling before his very eyes. His fingers were the width of sausages first, then candles; his palms the size of stones that dotted the banks of the pond by his home in Dolfield, then distended near the size of a Quaffle.

"My hands!" he gasped involuntarily as he beheld them. "My sodding hands!"

The proctor scowled as she realised that Severus was in no condition to continue the examination. Even if he'd wanted to continue, the sudden, inexplicable girth of his hands quite clearly prevented him from holding his wand. As the exam proctor called off the Dementor, Madam Pomfrey, who had been standing on hand outside, rushed into the room to tend to Severus' magic-induced malady.

"I've been telling the headmaster for _years_," she said to no one in particular as she took Severus' hands in her own, "that these exams are a medical disaster waiting to happen!"

Te nurse paused as she pressed and probed the young wizard's now morbidly swollen palm and fingers with her wand in attempt to deduce what had caused the crippling disfiguration. Moments and several incantations later, she turned to the proctor with an authoritative flair.

"An Engorgement Charm," she announced. "Someone's jinxed Mr. Snape's hands – I'll have to take him to the hospital wing for the antidote. I'm afraid this examination is over."

Madam Pomfrey's words echoed horribly through Severus' ears. Jinxed? He'd been jinxed? It was a preposterous idea! The corridor had been empty – was supposed to have been, anyhow. If someone had been there to jinx him, it would have required much careful planning and magical assistance – an invisibility cloak or a Disappearing Draft at least. Outwitting the Wizarding Examinations Authority would have been a difficult task, and yet there appeared no other explanation. Indeed, it was no accident that Severus' hands had disabled him: his examination had been sabotaged.

Severus paled at the notion. Sabotage. But who would have done this him? Who could have masterminded such a plot? Wildly, Severus jerked his head around the room in a frantic attempt to catch a glimpse of the perpetrator. He turned just in time to see a tousled-haired, spectacled figure dart around the corner, and with the swish of what appeared to be a cloak, the figure had disappeared entirely. Severus Snape's black eyes narrowed to murderous slits as it occurred to him who was responsible for his failure and humiliation.

It was James Potter.

* * *

Severus had been optimistic that he would not be penalized for having been jinxed during his Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T., a hope echoed by numerous members of Hogwarts' faculty, including the headmaster himself. Consequentially, the hook-nosed young man spent the early weeks of his summer holiday concentrating on other matters instead – readjusting to life with Darius in Dolfield, his research with Arsenius Jigger, and Jane. 

It was because of the latter, in fact, that Severus found himself by the pond behind the Snape residence that night.

"There's the Corona Borealis," Jane was telling him, pointing out the appropriate string of stars overhead.

It was not the first time they had laid side-by-side in the silent fields by the pond, pointing out the constellations, yet tonight was somehow different: Severus had much more on his mind than mere stars. It was ironic, he thought, that Jane should mention the wedding crown of Ariadne when he was decidedly not the marrying sort. All growing up, he had vehemently detested the idea of marriage. He'd viewed love as an exceedingly cruel means by which nature duped the emotionally frail into procreating, and marriage was simply a way of legitimizing the whole process, a justification for the basest of human instincts. Consequentially, Severus was loath to succumb to it; he refused to be weak, to willingly give himself over to what Darius and Circe Snape had become.

And yet, as he lay beside Jane Swizzle by the pond that evening, marrying her was all he could think about. Damn Bicarius Cauderon for putting the foolish idea in his head that day he offered Severus his apprenticeship! He couldn't say he necessarily _wanted_ to get married, but he did know that wanted to protect Jane, to spend each moment with her, to wipe her tears from her cheeks and share in the smiles on her lips. He wanted to hold her, to feel himself move inside her, to see her holding their child. If marriage was the easiest way to accomplish these things, then he just have to do so… assuming he could muster the courage to ask her, of course.

Severus propped himself up on his elbow and gazed intently at Jane. "You know how much I love you, Jane, don't you?" he asked hesitantly.

"I love you, too, Severus," she replied happily, her response so honest it was automatic. "Very much."

Severus nodded slightly, somewhat dazed and taken aback by Jane's continued insistence that she cared for him. It had been the better part of a year since she'd first told him she loved him, and despite the number of times she'd repeated the sentiment since then, he was still caught off guard.

"You know, both sets of our parents got married right out of Hogwarts," he said. "And Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black did. Then there's James Potter and Lily Evans, Frank Longbottom and Alice Gordon. Even Rodolphus and Bellatrix are engaged, too."

Severus looked hopefully into Jane's face, searching it for any signal that she understood what he was feebly attempting to ask her. He frowned when he realised that if she _did_ comprehend – and knowing her intelligence, he felt quite certain that she did – she wasn't going to reveal it; she wasn't going to make this easy for him. He sighed uneasily as he forced himself to attempt again.

"I-I guess it's not uncommon for… for… people to marry right away – after school, I mean..." he added hurriedly.

A sudden light filled Jane's wide, brown eyes, indicating that she had had a moment of epiphany. "Severus Snape, are you trying to propose to me?" she asked with an amused giggle, entertained by how he was able to apply logic to everything – even matters of the heart.

"I… I… er…" he stammered, a flush filling his cheeks. He looked awkwardly away, unable to complete his sentence.

This was as good a marriage proposal as she was ever going to get from Severus Snape, Jane realised. She took his chin in her palm and lifted his face to look at hers. There was an uncharacteristic flicker fear in those dark eyes of his, she noticed as she looked at him with sudden earnestness: Severus was afraid she'd reject him. At this understanding, Jane instantly berated herself for having regarded his discussion of marriage with levity. As Severus was not an overly emotional person, she knew it must have been difficult for him to even broach this topic, to put himself in a position of such vulnerability.

"Because if you _are_ trying to ask me to marry you," she added solemnly. "I think you should know that I would be honoured to become the next Mrs. Snape."

_Holy Hecate, she said yes!_ Severus thought with instant relief. _She actually said yes!_ His stomach – along with another piece of his anatomy – lurched happily as Jane swept some stray strands of his long, dark hair from his face affectionately and tucked it behind his ear before leaning closer to kiss him.

"You never seem to believe me when I say the words, Severus, so let me show you how much I love you instead," she whispered in his ear.

Possessing the scientifically inclined mind that he did, Severus believed firmly in the merits of empirical evidence. Consequentially, he was disinclined to protest Jane's offer to prove her fondness for him. Instead, he returned each of her favours with the same tenderness and affectionate curiosity. Above clothes, under clothes, in the eventual absence of clothes, they explored the more delicate regions of each other's bodies with hands and lips. By the time Severus had completed his exertions above her, he was quite convinced of her devotion to him, and afterwards, the two clung to each other, breathing deeply in one another's ears and whispering affections as they stared up at the stars.

* * *

Many an evening to come was shared between Jane and Severus in a similar fashion. However, the most momentous event of the season did not occur under the stars or in the fields or even during the nocturnal hours. It occurred instead during the day – one particular morning towards the end of July, to be precise – with the delivery of a letter. 

Severus Snape was not accustomed to receiving mail on a regular basis. Aside from an occasional correspondence with his grandparents in Giverny or a quick note from Rodolphus Lestrange or Evan Rosier during holidays, he had very few people to write to. As a child, he remembered wishing every time he saw an owl that it would bear a letter from his mother, but Azkaban prisoners were apparently forbidden contact with the outside world, and even if Circe Snape had had access to parchment and quill, he doubted she would have been in the emotional state to compose much in the way of words of comfort and love for her son.

Despite his rather infrequent experiences with owl post, though, Severus was not at all surprised when he received the letter from the Wizarding Examinations Authority that sticky morning. He was, after all, expecting the results of his N.E.W.T.s. What _did_ surprise him, though, was what those results were.

He'd been sitting in Darius Snape's deserted library, searching an elderly text for information on the use of spiders in poisons, when the letter arrived. Zoe had knocked cautiously on the oak-paneled door, and when Severus saw that the letter she carried bore the ornate seal of the Wizarding Examination Authority, he'd nearly trampled her in effort to seize it. Excitedly, he tore the envelope open, wounding the upper left most corner of the parchment in the process. His dark eyes scanned the page, eagerly trailing down the alphabetical listing of his courses and the respective marks he had earned in his examinations.

Ancient Runes: Outstanding

Arithmancy: Outstanding

Astronomy: Outstanding

Care of Magical Creatures: Outstanding

Charms: Outstanding

Defense Against the Dark Arts: Poor

Severus paused upon reading his mark in Defense Against the Dark Arts, his brow suddenly wrinkling and a low moan of grief involuntarily escaping his narrow lips. Hands trembling, he read the line over and over again, a piece of him genuinely expecting it to be different each time. This simply could not be right – he'd studied so hard; he'd taken Wit-Sharpening Potion; he'd written at least two feet of parchment more than the other students during the written examination. Only the practical portion had gone poorly, and that hadn't been his fault – Madam Pomfrey's determination that he'd been jinxed served as testament of this fact. Granted, Severus had been unable to prove that it had been James Potter who hexed him, as Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew were both more than willing to provide Potter an alibi when Severus informed the headmaster of his suspicions, but he'd clearly been hexed nonetheless.

However, there had been no mistake: Severus Snape had failed Defense Against the Dark Arts. He'd failed, according to the letter which accompanied his marks, because the Wizarding Examination Authority felt that because the test in question had pertained to defensive magic, Severus should have been able to guard himself against any and all magical ills – including the jinx that had caused his downfall. Considering that he had been unable to defend himself against a simple Engorgement Charm, the Evaluation Committee ruled, surely he would also be unable to defend himself against a Dementor or other similar Dark creature.

To Severus, though, the reason for his failure was much simpler; to Severus, he hadn't passed Defense Against the Dark Arts because of James Potter. It didn't matter to him that the rest of his classes – Potions, Transfiguration, and the like – were all unqualified successes, that he'd received an "Outstanding" in each of them. Only the failure and the spectacled Gryffindor's role in it seemed relevant. Once again, James Potter had managed to exploit and defeat him.

Severus glowered at the mere idea of it, yet glowering was not nearly enough. Instead, he felt such a greater emotion, had a stronger reaction. Suddenly, it was as though the past seven years compacted into one moment: Potter was simultaneously throwing Hurling Hexes and Dungbombs, was laughing at his underpants and gloating about being made Head Boy. All the rage, pain, and humiliation Severus had ever experienced at James Potter's hands swelled within him, and in a terrible gust of grief and fury, they were unleashed in one rabid fit. He overturned bookshelves and tore the taxidermy runespores and bugbears from the walls. He shattered windows and cursed at the portraits on the walls when they screeched their discontent with his efforts to redecorate.

"You ungrateful beast! How dare you loot the house of your ancestors!" bellowed Arachnia Snape, a long-deceased great aunt, from her portrait over a yet-to-be-felled bookshelf.

"Sod off, you bloody shrew, or you're next!" Severus shouted back at her as he assaulted a nearby lamp.

Greatly affronted, Arachnia merely squared her bony shoulders back haughtily and wagged a long, narrow finger at him. "Of all the insolent, disrespectful –" she continued to rant.

She was abruptly silenced, however, as, with an incoherent but decidedly foul snarl, Severus promptly raised his wand and wielded it in her direction. Arachnia Snape shrieked and only just dodged the blast by seeking refuge in a neighboring painting. The portraits collectively recoiled at Severus' strike against them, seeing that their sallow-skinned heir was distinctly not in the mood to be contradicted.

Indeed, it was a dark morning for Severus Snape, and standing there amidst the ruins of his father's study, runespore carcasses and broken glass strewn at his feet, he made himself a promise that would come to change his life: this was the last time that he would ever allow James Potter to get the best of him.

* * *

"You know, Severus, you're not the first wizard not to have N.E.W.T.-level certification in Defense Against the Dark Arts," Jane gently reminded him as she tended to his hand that evening. There was a gash extending across his palm to the base of his index finger from where he'd punctured the library window earlier that day. He'd tried to Heal it himself, but Jane was always much better with medicinal spells. Her curative talents had only increased since she had begun her much-coveted apprenticeship at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries a few weeks earlier, and so he'd welcomed her offer to examine it. 

Severus grimaced with pain as she removed a particularly deeply lodged sliver of glass with a wave of her wand. "I am well aware of this, thank you," he replied between clenched teeth. "However, _I_ am not just any wizard – I'm a Snape, and Snapes are expected to excel."

Jane nodded. "Your father will be upset, then, you mean," she muttered, her voice resounding with unambiguous disapproval at the mention of the elder Snape despite her effort to hide it.

She removed another shard from his hand, and Severus was silent, the kind of brooding, sinister silence that speaks grim confirmation, the kind of silence that casts shadows and freezes water. To say Darius Snape would be upset when he learned his son had failed his Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T. was to be euphemistic. As such, Severus was not anxious for his father to return from the Ministry that night.

Having removed the last of the glass from his palm, Jane set aside her wand and began to wrap his mangled hand in white gauze. "What do you intend to do?" she asked him softly, although she wasn't completely certain that she wanted to know his answer. Time, after all, had taught her that she'd often rather not know the destruction that passed between Severus and his tousled-haired foe.

"Besides hexing Potter's bollocks off, you mean?" he retorted.

Jane sighed as she tied the ends of the gauze up and tucked the excess beneath the folds of the soft fabric. "I'm serious, Severus," she replied.

Severus looked up at her pointedly, a sharpness emphasized by the hook of his nose and in the malicious glimmer in his ebony eyes. "I assure you that so am I," he informed her darkly. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet, but I _will_ prove myself someday. You'll see."

His answer was just as rancorous as Jane had suspected it would be, and as she stared back into Severus' shadowy, vehement eyes, she didn't doubt for an instant the ominous veracity of his vow.

But she hoped she was wrong.

It was quite late when Darius returned home. Zoe had already cleared the dining room, and Jane and Severus had long since managed to repair most of the damage the latter had done to the library that morning with Mending Charms. Only the scorch mark in Arachnia Snape's portrait remained, a fact that she was most outraged about. Not even Jane's gentle entreaties could persuade her to calm down, and Severus felt quite certain that the moment his father stepped into the house, he would be subjugated to a lengthy and vicious discourse on his son's impertinence.

"Don't let him provoke you, Severus," Jane told him softly as they stood bidding one another goodnight in the foyer of the Snape residence later on.

In all the years that they had known one another, she had never directly implied that she knew of the violence that passed between father and son. She knew Severus well enough to realise that he would not appreciate her pity, after all, and even as Jane acknowledged Darius' cruelty now, there was a hint of reluctance in her voice. Fortunately, Severus recognised the sincerity of her concern, and although his eyes grew stony at the mention of his father, he elected not to seize the opportunity to berate her. Instead, he chose to wrap his arms around her and reassure her with gentle kisses. Within moments of having Disapparated, though, Jane's wisdom proved only too pertinent.

"Well, well, well, it appears as though while the kneazle was away, the mice did _indeed_ play," a voice hissed from behind Severus.

As expected, Severus turned sharply to find Darius Snape emerging from the shadows of the dimly lit corridor. There was a cruel smile tugging perversely at the corners of his lips, and his eyes glowed malevolently as he approached. In one hand, Severus was quick to notice, was his wand; in the other was a piece of parchment bearing the crest of the Wizarding Examinations Authority.

"Now I know what it was that distracted you so greatly that you found yourself rendered incapable of passing Defense Against the Dark Arts," Darius sneered, alluding to the affectionate situation in which he had discovered his son.

Severus seethed, fists forming at his sides and a flush replacing the pallor of his cheeks. "Shut up about Jane!" he snarled. "You leave her out of this!"

"How very touching, Severus! How moving it is to see how much you _love_ her," the older Snape taunted, his eyes glinting viciously as he mocked Severus' affections. He laughed when he saw the fury mounting in his son. Then, after an abrupt pause, he added bitterly, "I loved your mother once, too, you know, and I think we _all_ know what became of that."

"You're not capable of loving anyone," Severus spat through clenched teeth.

Darius grinned smugly, not even trying to conceal his amusement at this statement. "Perhaps," he promptly agreed, his tone precarious. "And you, apparently, are not capable of defending anyone." His eyes narrowed ominously then. "Maybe I shall have to teach you a few lessons in the Dark Arts to refresh your memory," he growled, raising his wand.

As Severus writhed with pain on the foyer floor, he managed to have at least one semi-lucid thought. Potter may have ruined him, and Darius may have mocked him. Severus did, however, remember that there was someone who had praised him, who had revered his skills with Dark Arts. This someone had simultaneously evoked feelings of awe and dread in him, had been so powerful he had been able to make Darius fumble with trepidation. Undoubtedly, this same man would be able to help Severus, assist him in proving to the world that he was more powerful, more valuable a human being than his father and childhood foe had taken him for.

"Your father is most impressed with what talents you have, Severus," Darius' friend, Tom Riddle, had told Severus as a child one afternoon at Borgin and Burkes. "As am I. Remember that."

Finding a perverse sense of strength in this memory, Severus took advantage of a momentary lapse in Darius' concentration. Squaring back his shoulders, he raised his wand and took aim upon his father. He had withstood years of torment and humiliation, been made to feel worthless and subhuman. The time had come for him to prove otherwise. And he would begin right now.

"_Expelliarmus!_" he roared with newfound determination.

As a disarmed Darius Snape flew back against the far wall and crumpled to the floor, there was an oddly satisfied smile on his face. "Now _that's_ more like it, Severus," he chuckled, bringing the cuff of his robes to dab away the trickle of blood at his lip. "I always knew you had it in you."

What exactly "it" was, Severus was not entirely sure, but as he collected himself from the floor and straightened his robes, he was highly suspicious that Darius was right.

And Tom Riddle could help him prove it.


	13. The Young Apprentice

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 12: The Young Apprentice

* * *

In the years that followed, Severus would remember with great regret the events of the night he accepted the Dark Mark. He'd recall all too clearly the ominous lull of the dark magic around him. He'd remember that he didn't care, that he would've said yes to anything during those critical moments if it meant power and the chance to prove his worth. Severus was not naïve; he had been raised in the midst of a precarious decade, after all, by a man whose hand had touched virtually every incident most trembled to recollect. And so, as he prostrated himself before the Dark Lord – for that was what Darius had indicated Severus should call the man who had once been introduced to him as Tom Riddle – he was well aware of what he might be asked to do in exchange. It was merely inconsequential to him.

Severus wasn't the only one, of course. It was a new order that the Dark Lord promised, one that ensured pureblood supremacy, and as a result, he attracted the immediate attention of the finest families. He played on their elitism; he played on their fears; most usefully, he also played on their vaults at Gringotts. Each of them had their own reasons – hatred of Muggles, in the case of Will Avery, for example; love of Bellatrix Black for Rodolphus Lestrange; a desire to find meaning in an otherwise meaningless life for Evan Rosier. Severus' reasons seemed just as good as the next, and so he took his place among them without hesitation.

The Dark Lord, it so happened, had been pleased to see the pallid young man among the inductees. "Severus Snape, we meet again," he said, beckoning him forward with a wave of his snakelike fingers.

Despite the decade that had passed since he'd last seen the man before him, Severus recognised him immediately: the same hypnotic, narrow slits of eyes, that serpentine drawl, and the fluid manner in which he walked – a hybrid of self-assured swagger and surreptitious stalking. As always, he radiated power, cruelty, and a certain charisma that was at once magnetic and lethal.

"My Lord," Severus greeted, plunging into a deep bow at his feet.

Darius had versed him well in the etiquette of the Death Eater community, and he knew better than to speak his new master's name. It was a name, incidentally, that recalled such terror and atrocities Severus wasn't entirely certain he'd want to speak it even if he could. Someday, the hook-nosed young wizard had secretly vowed, his own name would also be one which others – James Potter and his own father included – feared to speak.

"I've been expecting this moment for some time now, you know," the Dark Lord told him, surveying him with grim approval.

Severus' brow wrinkled in puzzlement as he attempted to discern the meaning behind the Dark Lord's words. He was not especially fond of studies in divination, and it perplexed him that his new master apparently placed value in such. After all, unless the Dark Lord was prescient, Severus could not comprehend how he had known that he would someday join his ranks.

Upon seeing Severus' dismay, the older wizard nodded and smiled, his lips curving over pearly pointed teeth in wicked delight. "I knew you wouldn't forget," he explained.

He had been referencing, Severus supposed, that afternoon during which they had first met, that day at Borgin and Burkes when he was a child, and indeed, the Dark Lord was correct. Recalling that moment had been a turning point for Severus, the very instant that had caused him to seek the Mark. Eerie, Severus thought, that the Dark Lord could sense this, but it wasn't so much eerie as it was a direct result of Legilimency, a fact confirmed with the Dark Lord's next words.

"There isn't much about you that your emotions don't betray, Severus," he continued. "With a glimpse into your mind, I can learn your strengths and your weaknesses, your talents and…" The Dark Lord's voice trailed off as he peered meaningfully into the ebony eyes of the hook-nosed wizard before him, clearly searching for something deep in the recess of his mind. Moments later, the corners of the Dark Lord's lips twisted yet higher as he located precisely what he sought. "And your failures," he concluded smugly. "As you may have guessed, I haven't much use for _Defense_ Against the Dark Arts myself. In this regard, you and I are not unalike."

Severus faltered at the Dark Lord's allusion to the recent disaster of his Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T. He had heard of Legilimency before. Albus Dumbledore had explained that particular branch of magic to him when he was his student. Severus had even been suspicious the Hogwarts headmaster had practiced Legilimency upon him from time to time. Until this moment, though, it had never occurred to him the tremendous power a Legilimens possessed over an unwitting wizard, and his cheeks burned with the humiliation of his vulnerability. This was a power, he thought, he too wished to possess.

Before Severus could respond, the Dark Lord had turned to a portly wizard beside him. "Goyle, show our young master Snape to the North Tower," he instructed him abruptly. He turned his probing eyes back to Severus then as he added, "Anyone who could brew Veritaserum by age thirteen is of special value to me, and I have much more in store for him than mere brute labour."

* * *

Severus wasn't entirely sure where exactly this castle was located or even to whom it belonged. All he knew was that it was protected by numerous charms – including the immensely complex Fildelius – and that it was most likely the result of the generosity of the Malfoy clan. Drafty and windowless, the North Tower rest atop a flight of uneven stone steps at the far end of the castle. Severus shivered as he stepped inside what he immediately recognized as a potions laboratory.

The room was ideal for such work – chilly enough to keep potions ingredients fresh, he noted, and secluded enough that he could work in quietude. Although the Dark Lord had not been specific in what he wished Severus to prepare for him, a survey of the equipment neatly situated across the room was quite telling. The shelves were lined with endless jars of overtly toxic substances – arsenic, hellebore, and the like. There were books, too, a library of volumes like _A History of Hemlock_ and _Encyclopaedia_ _Toxicus_, The Dark Lord, it appeared, spared no expense, and the stocks on the shelves made his intentions perfectly clear.

"Poisons," Severus observed, his voice reverberating against the stone arches of the ceiling. "He wants me to make poisons."

And it was then that it occurred to him: Severus Snape was going to kill. He wasn't going to do it with curses or violence, and he wasn't going to do it in a barroom or a brawl. But he would do it nonetheless. He would do it with conium or belladonna, and he would do it from the Dark Lord's dark tower, never knowing who or when or why.

* * *

If someone had told Severus Snape a year ago that he'd be married at a mere eighteen years of age, he would have laughed in their faces and told them a werewolf had a better chance at being Minister of Magic. Nonetheless, his and Jane's hand-fasting ceremony took place before the summer's end.

"I suppose odds were in your favour that you'd find someone to shag you eventually, Snape," Evan Rosier had quipped when Severus told him he and Jane were getting married. "I mean, statistically, if even a wanker like Goyle could find someone then you could, too."

Indeed, the next months brought many changes for Severus. He had a new wife and a new cottage in the countryside to attend to. However, as the months turned to years, it was the lying that proved the most challenging to Severus. As much as he loathed deceiving Jane, he was fairly certain that she would not sympathize with the fact that her husband had sold his soul to the most innately Dark wizard of the age for the chance at power and prestige. The task had become increasingly difficult, as a supply of inventive lies was evading him, and he was surprised Jane still believed him. Severus had once fancied himself more creative than to issue such feeble excuses to explain his absences as working late or as having a shot of Firewhisky with Rodolphus Lestrange or Evan Rosier, but there seemed few other feasible options.

It was the lie, in fact, that he would be forced to tell Jane that was Severus' first concern when he felt that familiar searing on his left forearm as he left Jigger's library that evening. By now, he recognised the sensation enough that he didn't have to lift his sleeve to know that his skin was aglow with the Dark Lord's snake-and-skull marking. At once, he wished he could have ignored the call. It had, after all, been a long day and he knew Jane was probably already wondering where he was. Severus had no choice, though: one did not deny the Dark Lord and live to boast about it.

Severus had Apparated to find himself in the company of Evan Rosier and a corpse. He hadn't meant to stare, but he had never been in the presence of a dead body before and the sight of it unnerved him a bit more than he would have liked to admit. The corpse had been crudely wrapped in a dingy, soot-stained tarp and bound with rope. It was an awkward bundle, one that didn't feign to try to conceal what it was, only the identity of the victim within. Severus knew better than to ask, and as he and Rosier, charged with disposing of the awkward lump, made their way to darkest recesses of the Forbidden Forest, he wasn't sure he wanted to know anyway.

Now, a cool wind cut through the air. A choir of howls indicated that somewhere not too far from here, some unfortunate creature was meeting a gory end, and some felled twigs snapped beneath his heavy boots. Nonetheless, Severus walked on. He wasn't exactly certain where they were headed, and he doubted whether Rosier, who followed just steps behind, guiding the corpse with a simple Levitation Charm, knew either. The path – if there had been one – had disappeared beneath the overgrowth of moss and roots and fungi, and as the moon ducked behind another patch of clouds overhead, Severus withdrew his wand from his robes.

"_Lumos!_" he muttered with annoyance.

"The last time I was here – in the Forest, I mean," Rosier was saying, "was during N.E.W.T.s. It was that night I found you in the common room studying and when you asked where I'd been, I told you I'd been studying Florence Feather's anatomy. Remember that, mate?"

"Faintly," Severus replied gruffly, only dimly recalling that he'd been particularly appalled by Rosier's bragging about his insatiable libido that morning.

"Well, it just so happens that our little anatomy lesson took place at the edge of the Forest," Rosier replied with a grin. "I guess you could say I did more than penetrate school grounds that night."

Severus sighed and shook his head in disgust as he pushed aside a stray branch. "Rosier, how can you possibly talk about shagging at a time like this?" he hissed.

"Can't help it, mate," Rosier retorted, his smile broadening. "Burying dead bodies always makes me randy. You mean to say it doesn't do the same for you?"

Despite his years of familiarity with his friend's propensity for jocularity, the startling inappropriateness of Rosier's statements never failed to exasperate Severus. Consequentially, he met Rosier's laughter with an icy glare as he recalled his own experiences in the Forbidden Forest. The last time Severus had been here was while serving detention during his sixth year, feeding thestrals with Hagrid. Remus Lupin had nearly killed him the following night, and as Severus reacquainted himself with the ominous mystique of the forest, he had the distinct impression that he could quite possibly die tonight as well. The beasts of the Forest were notoriously dangerous, after all, and as Rosier was not making the slightest effort to be quiet, Severus felt fairly certain that they would have no difficulty locating prey as willing as they. The corpse behind him, he thought in a moment of grim epiphany, could within moments be his.

"I suppose this is as good a place as any," Severus said coldly as they presently came upon a small clearing.

Rosier nodded approvingly. He lowered his wand, and with an indecorous thud, the corpse tumbled to the ground.

"Would you mind terribly being a bit more careful? I don't think you'd like someone treating _your_ body that way," Severus snapped.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, he's already dead," Rosier protested. "I highly doubt he cares anymore."

However, as Rosier charmed the shovel they had toted along into digging an appropriately sized hole in which they could stow the swaddled mass, Severus felt quite differently. He was fairly certain that were the roles reversed, he would not appreciate such a crude burial as this, and he beheld the scene with revulsion. It was only now, standing over the tarp that he noticed something peculiar about it: in the course of transporting the body, the right hand had slipped from the makeshift wrapping.

Brow wrinkled, Severus approached the corpse, intent on concealing the lifeless flesh once more. "Who is it anyway?" he asked.

Rosier shrugged his shoulders. "Dunno," he replied, averting his gaze. "Just some poor bloke who double-crossed the Dark Lord, I suppose."

There was an uncomfortable hesitancy in his response, though, and Severus had the distinct impression that despite what he claimed, his friend did indeed know the identity of the individual whose body they now had the unpleasant task of disposing of. Eyes narrowed, Severus glanced suspiciously from Rosier back to the corpse. Kneeling beside it, he took the limp palm in his own. Its iciness chilled him to his spine as he studied it. It was a man's hand, a Sunday hand, and upon the middle finger was a platinum ring. Unmistakable signs of an aristocrat, Severus realised, and most likely a pureblood at that. Eager to ensure their continued status in the upper echelons of society, most pureblood families at least donated financial support to the Dark Lord; it was odd to think that one among them had, as Rosier had put it, determined to double-cross him

Puzzled, Severus looked closer. In the fickle illumination of the moonlight, he noticed there was an inscription on the ring, a family motto. _Toujours Pur_, it read. Centuries ago, the Norman Conquest had left its mark in the bloodlines of society, and Severus was not surprised to find the influence of the French still among the elite. He himself had grown up under the Lestrange influence and a similar family motto, _force dans l'obscurité et la lumière_. There were precious few wizarding families Severus could think of who had the strength of bloodline to advertise such distinctive ancestral connections, and Severus could think of only two young men who could have claimed the _Toujours Pur_ motto as their own. One of them, he knew, had rebuffed it years ago. Thus, even as Severus cautiously peeled back the tarp, his heart thumping wildly in his chest all the while, he had an inkling of whose body it was he could find before him.

The death must have been recent, as the foul stench of corporal decay did not instantly overwhelm him. What did overwhelm Severus, however, was the familiarity of the lifeless face that stared back at him. He had once been a handsome man – robust and energetic with his chin held high in aristocratic hauteur and the same mischievous grey eyes of his brother. Now, the young man's cheeks were hollow and grey with death, his still-open eyes glassy and dull, and his dark hair hung limp and tangled around his prominent jaw line. Despite this, though, there was no mistaking him; Severus' suspicions had been confirmed.

"Bloody hell, it's Regulus Black," he choked.

Trembling, Severus stumbled back and steadied himself against a tree stump. He had known Regulus, had gone to school with him. Despite certain personality quirks, such as his pervading believe that being a Black made him superior to others and the fact that Severus never felt he could trust him entirely, Regulus had been good company. He was always game for a practical joke and he and Severus shared a distinct disdain for Sirius Black. Now he was dead. Severus hadn't even known he'd been associated with the Dark Lord, although it didn't surprise him. Knowledge was power, after all, and the Dark Lord, in his apparently unending quest to maintain said power, often denied his followers awareness of one another's identities. Severus doubted he could name much more than a dozen Death Eaters, although he knew there were dozens more. This secrecy was wise, he thought, as it ensured the safety of the whole should someone untrustworthy among them seek to betray them. Could Regulus Black have been such a traitor?

Severus looked up at Rosier to see his reaction. The sandy-haired young wizard remained silent, and although the arrogant grin that normally played at the corners of his lips was gone, he seemed oddly unmoved.

"You knew, didn't you?" Severus demanded, concluding that this was the only logical explanation for his friend's indifference.

Rosier turned away, and by so doing, he only validated Severus' suspicions.

At once, Severus was back on his feet. He grasped Rosier by the shoulders and forced him to look at him. "You _knew_!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "You knew and you didn't tell me!"

Defiantly, Rosier shook himself from Severus' grasp. There was a sudden madness glowing in his eyes, and Severus was taken aback by it. He had never seen a fire like this in his friend before, in the wizard whose humour had once been legend in Slytherin dormitory and whose most complex emotions extended to lusting after young witches.

"Aye, mate, I knew," he spat. "I knew because I was there."

Rosier paused abruptly then, his voice crackling in a way it hadn't since he was twelve years old. Unable to stand Severus' probing gaze any longer, he turned away again, and with a sudden burst of frustration, he grasped the shovel mid-scoop, halting its progress on the makeshift grave, and hurled it into the air. With a metallic clank, the shovel collided with a tree and tumbled to the ground, scattering dirt and snow in its wake.

"I was there," Rosier added, "because I did it… I killed Regulus Black."

Severus thought he hadn't heard Rosier correctly at first. For a moment, it sounded nearly as though he was confessing to a murder. But it wasn't just any murder he had admitted to – he had killed a man who had once been their Slytherin brother, their friend. It was beyond anything Severus could have imagined Rosier capable of. He was no murderer; he was a playboy, a man who divided his time between lounging about his lavish SW3 flat and making love to beautiful women. However, the strange look of self-loathing in Rosier's face as he turned to look at Severus' once more confirmed his guilt.

"He wanted to defect, and I was given my orders," Rosier explained. His voice was barely more than a whisper now, and there were silent tears of remorse on his long, blonde lashes. "If I didn't do it, someone else would have. If I didn't comply…" His voice trailed off painfully, and he swallowed hard. "If I didn't comply, it would've been me."

Unable to conceal his horror, Severus staggered away from Rosier. Like a typical Slytherin, Rosier had traded his friend's life for his own. Although he couldn't say he was necessarily shocked by this turn of events, Severus was still disgusted by it. "Regulus knew you – he _trusted_ you," he sputtered.

There was no point protesting the validity of his friend's words, and so Rosier nodded wretchedly as he lowered himself to sit, back slumped, on the same tree stump upon which Severus had steadied himself just moments before. "No offense mate, but I'm really in no mood to be preached to," he said weakly but bitterly. "The truth is, you're just as guilty as I am."

Severus looked incredulous. A flush rose high in his cheeks as he cowered over Rosier in the moonlight. "Me?! How?" he gasped. "I didn't kill Regulus."

"You provided the means to do it, Snape. You made the poison I used to kill him," was the frank reply. "Remember that night we slipped the Veritaserum into James Potter's dinner? Let's just say history has an ironic way of repeating itself."

Rosier's words reverberated in Severus' ears, echoing horribly until the richness of their implications settled in. Severus didn't want to believe it, but as he leaned closer and examined Regulus' corpse more closely, he immediately saw that Rosier was telling the truth. Regulus Black hadn't been killed in the normal way, by the Killing Curse. The Killing Curse was instantaneous, stealing life before shock and pain could register on the face of the victim. Regulus' countenance, however, was contorted oddly, indicating that he had suffered in his death. He'd had time to feel, to realise what was happening to him and who had killed him. It seemed quite likely, Severus thought, that Regulus had been poisoned.

And he had made that poison.

* * *

Severus Snape was an accomplice to murder. The revelation blindsided him, and as he sulked in his study in those early morning hours upon returning from the Forbidden Forest, he pondered what it meant to be a killer. He had, after all, brewed the poison that took the life of Regulus Black, his one-time friend. Severus had been well aware of the toxicity of the potion he'd created, that it was lethal in certain quantities, and although he had not known it was intended specifically for Regulus, he _had_ known that it was meant for some unfortunate fool who tangled with the Dark Lord.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, Severus thought. He had only killed anonymously before, had never known the names or faces of those who fell prey to the potions he created. For this reason, it hadn't truly seemed like murder. Tonight, though, everything had changed. Severus had seen his victim, had known his victim, had befriended his victim. The horror of this reality washed over him in waves. Indeed, Rosier had been right: Severus shared in the guilt for Regulus Black's death. The matter was as black and white as the letters in the Occlumency text he now stared at in unsuccessful attempt to distract him from his wretchedness.

"Severus?" a soft voice asked from behind him.

He looked up with a start and turned to see Jane standing behind him. He hadn't heard her come into the room, and considering the lateness of the hour, he was stunned she had not yet gone to bed.

"It's late, Severus," Jane whispered to him as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and embraced him. "I can't imagine Master Jigger means for you to work for him morning, noon, _and_ night. Please come to bed."

Severus closed his eyes and allowed himself a temporary indulgence as she nibbled his ear affectionately. In truth, Jane was right: Arsenius Jigger _didn't_ mean for him to work so much. However, it hadn't been Master Jigger's work that kept him up on nights such as these. It had been the work of the Dark Lord, the work of death. But how could Severus possibly tell her this? How could he explain that Regulus Black was dead – that he had been there, that he'd seen his body, that he'd helped bury him? Worse, how could he tell her that it had been he who had helped kill him?

The answer was simple: he couldn't tell her. Severus had seen the havoc his father's commitment to the Dark Lord had reaped in his parents' marriage. He remembered all too well the constant tension and mutual disapproval that alienated them from one another. There had been his father's hostility, his volatility and impassivity; there had been his mother's tears and protestations, the way her smile always faded when Darius entered the room. Their mutual detestation had resulted in nothing but destruction – in Azkaban, in Cruciatus, and in traumatizing their only son. Severus didn't think he could bear it if he turned into the same monster his father had and Jane came to resent him as much as Circe Snape had resented Darius. By protecting Jane from the truth, he was protecting himself. He wouldn't tell her.

It was with these memories in mind that Severus pulled away from Jane, shrugged from her embrace and her questioning gaze. "Bloody hell, can't a man have a moment of peace?!" he muttered, the stresses of the night getting the better of his temperament.

At once, Jane recoiled, hurt by his rejection and stunned by his coldness. "Severus, what's wrong?" she asked gently.

Severus hesitated and ran his hands through his hair, tugging on the lank strands in frustration. He hadn't meant to snap at her, and it occurred to him that in the moment he had denied Jane's advances, he had proven he was more like his father than he had at any other point in the evening. After all, the destructive spiral of Darius and Circe Snape must have begun with moments such as this – an unanswered question, an unreturned embrace, a snide remark. Severus shuddered at the thought of how much like Darius he was becoming: disappearing without explanation for undefined periods of time, isolating his wife who only meant well, supporting the Dark Arts. Slowly but surely, Severus noted, he was turning into the monster he'd always loathed. He had to stop this cycle in any way he could, and while some matters could not be helped, he could avoid isolating Jane.

Sheepishly, he raised his dark coals of eyes towards her. "I-I'm sorry, Jane," he stammered.

There was a distinct trace of dismay that marked Jane's gaze as she beheld her husband's face for the first time that evening. Severus wasn't certain which it was that alarmed her more: the dark circles that had formed under his eyes or the uncharacteristic hoarseness in his voice when he spoke. Either way, it was immediately apparent to her that something within Severus was broken, and gracefully, Jane resolved not to force herself into his confidence. She respected him too much to do so. Instead, her apprehension melted into a sympathetic smile, and she reached out to caress his face, running her fingertips gently along the swell of his cheek the way he had done to her countless times. Jane kissed him then. It was an invitation, of course, one which Severus accepted without hesitation. He needed her, and as he drank from her lips with avarice, she understood that need.


	14. In Which a Life is Taken

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 13: In Which A Life Is Taken… And Another is Formed

* * *

It was a ruthless existence. Severus knew it; he felt it. It crawled across his pallid skin when the Dark Lord beckoned him. It quaked in his bones when he mixed potions for Arsenius Jigger each morning. It beat in his heart at night when he reached to take Jane in his arms. And it was precisely the reason why he had been repulsed when Jane told him she was pregnant.

The pregnancy hadn't been planned, and Severus could scarcely conceal his horror upon learning of it. They would be young parents, of course, but they were not the only ones: several of their former Hogwarts classmates already had children – couples like the Potters and Longbottoms. This did little to comfort Severus, though, who instantly felt quite confident in his lack of ability to make a suitable father figure. He had not, after all, had a particularly exemplary paternal role model in his own life, and he was most concerned that he would prove a similar failure. Consequentially, Severus loathed the idea of tormenting another generation as he had been tormented.

But his apprehension was rooted much deeper. It wasn't just youthful selfishness or the memory of Darius Snape that haunted Severus. It was that it seemed a foolish if not downright irresponsible thing to him to bring a child into such a world as this – a world which was increasingly precarious everyday. Murder. Revenge. Greed. Life was a tapestry of violence. Severus knew this; he had seen first hand the basest, most desperate actions a man was capable of. What's more, he had found that he himself was capable of the same vile deeds he once loathed. Consequentially, he could not in good conscience introduce an innocent – his own child – into such a life.

As Jane stood before him, begging him to want his own child and unable to comprehend why he didn't, Severus wanted to tell her all this. He could scarcely count the number of times since Regulus Black's death that he'd wanted to tell her the truth, that he was a Death Eater, that he was a murderer, that he was unfit to be in the same room with her let alone be her husband. Tonight, however, it seemed much easier to ignore that dreadful nagging within

"You've _been_ taking the Draft, haven't you?" Severus asked accusatorily, as if it had been her alone who was responsible for the conception of the child growing within her.

"The Draft is not always completely effective, Severus," Jane reminded him patiently but firmly. "Even when made by the most competent of potions-makers."

"That's nonsense, Jane," he scoffed. "Who made the potion?"

"You did, Severus," she replied so plainly that if Severus didn't know her better, he might have said she being downright smug.

A flush rose in Severus' cheeks at that, and his jaw worked silently for a moment as he tried to formulate the proper retort. As usual, Jane was right: contraceptive potions were not infallible, and he was confident enough in his brewing abilities to be certain he had not made a mistake. Statistics, it seemed, had had an unseemly hand in the matter. Fortunately, there was a remedy.

"Is that so?" Severus hissed at last. "Well then, I suppose I'll have to make another potion, one that can get rid of it – rid of the baby, I mean."

He had spoken the words more for dramatic effect than in earnestness, but this didn't lessen their sting, and once he had said them, he knew there was no taking them back. Jane was a strong woman. There had been precious few times in her life that Severus had known her to cry, and yet as she stood staring at him with complete appellation at his suggestion, there was a distinct wateriness within her eyes.

"I hope you don't mean that, Severus," Jane whispered, recoiling and bringing her hand protectively to her womb.

She would never completely forgive him for this, Severus knew, no matter what he ever said or did to try to convince her to, and even as he stalked out of the house and slammed the front door behind him moments later, a piece of him had to admit he didn't blame her.

* * *

Weeks had passed since Severus had seen Evan Rosier. However, as he watched the casual manner with which his friend slipped into the seat beside him that night, it became immediately obvious to Severus that Rosier's conscience – assuming he had one to begin with – had somehow made a remarkable recovery following the murder of Regulus Black.

"Trouble in paradise, mate?" Rosier asked.

It was a typical night in Knockturn Alley – dreary and rainy and filled with its usual miscreants. The central inn and pub, The Churlish Boor, was no different. It was a grotty, dimly lit place with poor ventilation and a proprietor who cheated at card games and was as likely to stab you as let you in the door. The food was questionable at best, and the Firewhiskey was served by large-breasted wenches – squibs and failed witches. Their décolletage provided a not-so-subtle indication that, for the proper sum of Galleons, they could be cajoled into taking a room upstairs in order to satisfy more thirsts than that for alcohol.

The Churlish Boor's clientele were of the same surly breed. There was Mundungus Fletcher in the far corner inevitably trying to make a quick Galleon on some illegal wands, and Severus was fairly certain he had seen the wizard on the opposite end of the bar in the headlines of that morning's _Daily Prophet_ article documenting a break-in at the Ministry. Rosier himself had made headlines not too long ago: As a suspect in the disappearance of Regulus Black, he'd made the Magical Law Enforcement's most wanted wizards list. Since then, evading Aurors had become Rosier's primary occupation.

Upon his friend's entrance, Severus only continued to stare sourly into his Firewhiskey. "She's having a baby," he grumbled miserably. It wasn't the friendliest greeting, of course, but then again, he and Rosier had been through too much together to bother with formalities anymore.

"Who is? Not that redhead from Sheffield? It's not mine – I swear it! She was a bit of all right, mind you, but Florence would have had my balls on a silver platter," Rosier protested, his objections too ardent to be convincing.

"Not anyone _you've_ buggered, you self-absorbed twit," Severus hissed through clenched teeth, turning to glare at him. "My wife. Jane. She's pregnant."

"Right," Rosier replied, nodding as if he knew all along whom Severus was referring to. "Of course, Snape, there's one error in your logic: How do you know I _haven't_ shagged Jane?" he teased with his trademark grin.

As usual, Evan Rosier had tempted the boundaries of decorum, and he promptly found himself the well-deserved brunt of Severus' wrath. In an instant, the hook-nosed wizard had seized Rosier by the collar of his robes. Sparks shot from the end of Severus' wand, leaving tiny scorch marks on Rosier's grey cloak, as he thrust it towards his friend's face.

"If you _ever_ insult my wife again, I will _end_ you," Severus seethed. Rage and Firewhiskey combined to make his voice especially husky, and alarm instantly registered across Rosier's otherwise handsome face.

"Bloody hell, mate, I was only joking," Rosier said quickly, his own tone an octave higher in panic. "Humblest apologies if I ever implied that Jane was anything but pure and true."

Severus paused, although his eyes still smoldered. In a pub like The Churlish Boor, a row such as this attracted no special attention from management or bystanders. In fact, there was generally very little dark and deadly that _did_ attract special attention in Knockturn Alley; such was standard here. Consequentially, had Evan Rosier been anyone else beside Evan Rosier, his long-time best friend, Severus would not have hesitated to blast him to Hades for such impertinence, and although he firmly believed that Rosier could have benefited greatly from punishment such as he was prepared to administer, Severus lowered his wand.

"You did a bit more than imply," he retorted, straightening his robes and siphoning off the rest of his Firewhiskey into his mouth.

Rosier at least had tact enough not to dispute this. "Cheer up, mate," he said instead. "It can't be _that_ bad… Except for the dirty nappies and the constant crying and the fact that Jane's figure will never be the same again, of course."

"I can only say that if this is your best attempt to cheer me up, you have failed abominably," Severus informed Rosier, tilting the bottle of Firewhiskey towards the mouth of his glass.

"Sorry," the latter chuckled. "What do you want me to say? That I shudder to think what the world will be like with another _you_ running around it?" he teased.

Grumbling under his breath, Severus rolled his eyes with disgust. He didn't know what he had expected Rosier to say to him, but he certainly was not in the mood to be teased. Upon seeing his friend's exasperation, Rosier only laughed harder. He had always, after all, found Severus' sulking intensely amusing, and provoking him never failed to entertain him. He raised his glass of Firewhiskey in a celebration of having vexed Severus Snape once again.

It was just as Rosier was bringing the glass to his lips, though, Severus noted, that his eyes suddenly fixed on something by the entrance of the pub. The color drained from his healthily flushed cheeks, and it was difficult to miss the panic rising in his darting eyes. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Fuck! – er… look, mate, I'd love to stay and continue this little chat about the finer points of fatherhood," Rosier said with sudden anxiousness. His eyes were still set cautiously on the door, and he was half out of his seat even as he spoke. "Unfortunately, I've got to pop out for a bit, so cheers and give my best to Jane."

Severus watched, puzzled, as Rosier ducked into the crowd. He glanced around in attempt to discern the meaning of his friend's sudden departure, and then he saw them. Brandishing wands and an unmistakable air of authority, three figures had entered the bar. They stood out amongst the unsavory, suspicious-looking crowd typical of The Churlish Boor, and as he promptly recognised the trademark grizzled countenance of their leader, Alastor Moody, Severus knew who they were.

Aurors.

They were a Death Eater's nightmare, and Severus paled at the sight of them. He had heard all about them, how these Ministry employees claimed to be just and moral as they upheld the law and punished the guilty. Severus knew better, though. He knew they had brought in countless Death Eaters – some only suspects – and imprisoned them in Azkaban without so much as the decency of a trial. Just last week they'd finally managed to capture Igor Karkaroff. He'd been promised his chance to speak before the Wizengamot, Severus heard, but no date had been set yet, and there was widespread doubt among the Death Eaters that their brother would be given the chance to defend himself at all.

Moody looked determined tonight. Perhaps it had been a tip from a trusted source or some careful sleuthing that led him to The Churlish Boor. Either way, Rosier's hasty departure made it perfectly obvious whom it was that he feared the Aurors were determined to apprehend this evening: him. His suspicions were confirmed as Severus promptly saw Moody pointing to a figure in the distance. Severus followed his stare. Sure enough, a sandy-colored head was making its way through the pub, towards a stockroom at the far corner and the chance for hiding offered therein.

He'd never make it, Severus noted with alarm as he surveyed the path of pursuit. The stockroom was too far, too close to the path of the Aurors. They'd surely catch Rosier before he could conceal himself within. But as his eyes fell across the room, Severus saw that there was hope yet, a better way; he saw that there was a stairway. The stairs lead to the upper floors of the building, to the infamous bedrooms above, and these bedrooms, Severus quickly realised, was where there were windows and doors, closets and crevices – all means by which to escape or hide. The staircase wasn't far from where Severus was standing. It was closer than the stockroom, anyway, and although retreating upstairs would buy them mere moments, it might be enough.

Having already seen Regulus Black die in this battle of wills, Severus was damned if he was going to sit idly by and lose another friend. The Aurors may have spotted Rosier, but Severus was closer. There was still time for him to do something, and without premeditation, he knew exactly what that something was: he had to find Rosier before the Aurors did; he had to help him escape. If he didn't, Rosier would surely pay the price with his life. The decision may have been made in an instant, but it would affect Severus for a lifetime. However, as he presently found himself desperately pushing through the throng in the direction he'd last seen his friend, there was no time to think of the consequences.

"Rosier!" Severus called, grasping his friend by the collar of his cloak the moment he was close enough to reach it.

The sandy-haired young man turned with a start. There was a marked difference in his countenance – his eyes were wider than usual, and he had the haunted looked of someone keenly aware that any moment could easily be his last.

"Snape, you stupid sod, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" Rosier shouted, his eyes pleading. He already had the death of one friend on his conscience; he scarcely needed another. "It's _me_ they're after – not you."

Even as he spoke, though, Severus was already dragging him away from the stockroom of The Churlish Boor and towards to the staircase. "You'll get yourself killed that!" he snarled. "Come on."

Rosier silenced abruptly. He'd grimly noted the urgency in his friend's black eyes, and he knew it was futile to protest. After all, the years had taught him that Severus Snape was always – for better or worse – right. There was no time to waste in argument even if he could have proffered a coherent point of contention.

The din of the raucous conversations taking place around them rang in their ears, drowning out the shouts of the approaching Aurors as Severus and Rosier made their way across the pub. They pushed and shoved against the thick, sprawling crowds which stood shoulder-to-shoulder, wall-to-wall. At one point, Rosier even collided with a rather rotund wizard. The latter's Firewhiskey-soaked stomach quaked with rage as he stood up and bellowed a series of expletives after them. Were the situation not so dire, Severus was certain his friend would have had a joke to crack about the scene. Fortunately, the prospect of Aurors seemed to have sobered him somewhat.

"Sorry, mate," Rosier said instead, the manners inherent in his elite upbringing refusing to fail him even as Severus tugged at his robes urgently, dragging him towards the stairs. Rosier ducked away just as the drenched wizard's fist reached out to make contact with what would have been his nose had he not moved.

And then Severus saw it: the stairway was mere paces away. In a moment, he could reach out and touch the banister, and as he stumbled up the stairs, Rosier anxiously at his heels, he could see Moody below, still struggling through the reluctant mob.

"They're getting away!" Moody growled.

It was a little optimistic an appraisal of the situation, Severus thought, as despite having put some distance between them, he and Rosier were still far from escaped. Having reached the top step, though, they were at least a bit closer. Quickly, Severus sized up the situation. The upstairs was as bleak and bustling with the same class of crowd as the pub beneath. The sounds of sin creaked and groaned behind the bedroom doors that lined the corridor, and the air was acrid, thick with a haze of cigar smoke and Firewhiskey.

"Bloody hell, mate," Rosier gasped as he surveyed the series of closed doors and panting bodies. "There's no where to go!"

But Severus wasn't listening. Already, his mind was working. Indeed, contrary to Rosier's assessment of the scene, there _was_ a place to go. "This way," he ordered brusquely, indicating an open bedroom door at the end of the hall.

The room wasn't far, yet it seemed to take an exorbitant amount of time to reach it. Impatiently, Severus forced his way past the drunks and the wenches, dragging Rosier by his cloak in one hand and extending his wand defensively with the other.

"Fancy a shag, do we?" asked a lusty brunette wearing too much lipstick as they waded past.

Severus knew that any other night, Rosier would at least have paused at such an offer. Tonight, however, was different. Rosier's eyes cascaded longingly over the wench's figure, over the curve of her hip, her tight-fitting corset, and the creamy tops of her breasts which overflowed above.

"Not tonight, love," he choked before stumbling forward. He may have regretted that there wasn't time for a shag, but much to Severus' relief, he apparently realised that – worse yet – there never would be time again if he didn't manage to escape tonight.

Pushing past another wench, Severus burst through the deserted bedroom. It was a drafty room with bare walls and a leaky ceiling. The plunking of raindrops into a tin basin on the ground seemed eerily prophetic, each drip counting away the seconds to their inevitable doom. Hardly a den for romance, Severus noted, although he supposed that romance really had little relevance in a place where sex, like any other commodity, was traded for a price.

"Now what, mate?" Rosier asked desperately as he slammed the door shut behind them. "It won't take them long to figure out what's happened to us, you know."

"Then I suggest we find a way out of here," Severus replied matter-of-factly as he scanned the room, thinking fast for a means of doing as he recommended.

Even as he spoke, there was a rising commotion in the hallway outside. The Aurors, it seemed, had finally managed to ascend the stairs, and by the startled choir of screams which reverberated throughout the shabby floor, it sounded as though they were presently raiding each room in search of Evan Rosier. Indeed, it hadn't taken them long at all to pursue them.

"There!" Rosier said suddenly. "The window."

Severus looked skeptical as he crossed the room to stare out the cracked glass. The rain fell heavily outside, and a gust of wind whipped the moisture at his face as he threw the window open. As he peered out, though, he saw that there was a ledge – a ledge wide enough to stand on, he thought, and within arm's reach from the ledge was the familiar iron form of a fire escape. It was rusty and missing rungs, and Severus was not entirely convinced it was safe. Such a path was precarious, but there were few other options.

"Come on, then," he said impatiently as he ushered Rosier forward. "They'll be here any moment."

The pounding and screaming of the Aurors on their raid drew still nearer. It was so close that they could distinguish Moody's husky inflection in the clamor now. There was not a moment to spare as Rosier crawled out the window and into the rain. Severus followed behind, hoisting himself onto the fire escape. It creaked and groaned in protest against their combined weight, and although he was not conscious of having done so at the time, Severus held his breath in anxiety as he inched along it. Just a few more steps. Just one more step.

By the time his boots touched the street below, Rosier had already broken into a sprint, winding down the deserted dark alleys which stretched behind the infamous shops of the Knockturn high street. Severus had been about to follow suit when sudden shouting from above distracted him. He looked up to see Moody half out the window above him, wand raised eagerly in the chase. Their eyes locked across the darkness, and although their features were barely distinguishable amidst the rain and shadows, Severus would never forget that instant. The moment seemed to drag on as that magical eye swirled in Moody's skull, frantic and trying to memorize him. Moody was fixing him, he supposed, in his mind, adding the image of Severus Snape to his repertoire of criminals. There was no turning back now; Moody had seen his face and with a little research would be able to identify him. Turning on his heel, Severus began to run after Rosier. They were both marked men now.

Severus wasn't sure where they were headed, but he could scarcely recall having ever run so fast in his life. In his panic, he was only dimly aware of his heart thundering against his ribs, of his breath which seemed never enough, and of the cold rain which had soaked through his robes to his pallid skin. He knew they could not have gone far, as it was impossible to have traversed vast distances on foot. However, it was quite an education in the backstreets of wizarding London, and Severus had soon lost count of the number of turns and twists he and Rosier had made in their path.

Still, the Aurors advanced. Despite the corners that Rosier and Severus turned or the alleys they ducked down, they remained on their heels, Moody leading them. He blasted curses at their feet in attempt to impede their progress and shouted incoherent instructions to his two companions. Severus had never expected a man of his age to have such relentless energy, such zeal. It appeared that Moody's reputation for constant vigilance was not underestimated.

They were along the Thames now. The blackness of the river met the blackness of the night, and in such darkness, Severus could scarcely see Rosier ahead of him. All he could do was listen – listen to the pummeling of the rain on the cobblestone and the crashing of their feet resounding above that. Rosier's pace was slowing now. Severus heard his footsteps gradually lessen in frequency, and then he felt him. Rosier was tugging on his cloak, pulling him off the street and into an alley.

"Bloody hell, Rosier, what do you think you're doing?!" Severus seethed. "They're right behind us!"

Rosier only shook his head. He panted, trying to catch his breath as he leaned against the abandoned factory building behind which they were hiding. Like the other buildings that lined the street, it was a somber structure, and its crumbling red brick and boarded windows revealed that it had long been in disuse.

"No, mate, I think we've lost them," he explained. "Have a listen. They're gone."

Cynical, Severus paused, straining his ears through the rain for any indication that they were not alone on the street. He heard the sound of their urgent rasping for air as they tried to catch their breath. He heard the lapping of the Thames against its banks and that of the wind against the brick of the tall buildings dwarfing them. He did not hear, however, Alastor Moody shouting or footsteps echoing, magic-producing muttering or cloaks fluttering. As Rosier had observed, the whole alley was unexpectedly and most unnaturally still.

It was too quiet, in fact, and every bone in Severus' body told him it was a trap. Something about the suddenness of the silence seemed suspicious. Considering the rigor of the Aurors' pursuit up until this point, Severus found it unlikely if not downright inconceivable that they would have randomly abandoned their mission now. No, he quickly decided. They had other plans: the Aurors were trying to lure them out of hiding with a false sense of security.

"No," he whispered in horror, "it's a bloody trap."

Rosier paled. Severus could see the pastiness in his cheeks even in the darkness. White as a ghost, he was, and as he stood there, the rain pelting his shoulders, Rosier felt almost as though he was already dead indeed. After all, if the Aurors had gained such an advantage as Severus suspected, he may as well have been.

"I've got to make a run for it then, mate," Rosier heaved desperately. "It's my only shot."

If it wasn't for the fact that Rosier promptly clenched his teeth in determination and stepped away from the wall in preparation for action, Severus would have dismissed his comment. It was clear, however, that he was serious. In a resolve tantamount to suicide, he was going to run.

"Are you mad?" Severus protested, stepping forward to block his friend from venturing back out to the alley. "They're out there waiting for you. They'll kill you the moment you step out onto that street."

"I've got to try at least. I can't go to Azkaban – I'd rather die than go there!" Rosier insisted, pushing past him.

"Bloody hell, you stubborn git!" Severus raged. "You don't stand a chance on your own."

Rosier was emphatic, though. "But I've got to go alone, mate," he told him urgently. "You've gotten me this far, and I'm grateful. But you've got a family now – you've got to stay out of this. Don't bollocks it all up like I have."

There was an odd twinkle in Rosier's blue eyes as he looked at Severus, a combination of resolve and a flawed sense of nobility. In the next instant, he was moving forward again, heading towards the dark quiet street at full sprint. Severus lunged out to grab Rosier, to stop him from making a potentially deadly mistake, but it was too late: he caught only a handful of the hem of his cloak, and as he fell forward, face down in a puddle, even that much eluded him. Wiping mud from his cheek, Severus looked up just in time to see Rosier dart into the dreary alley.

It was Moody himself who stepped forward first. Wand raised and glowing with a simple Illumination Spell, he emerged from the shadows and served as a one-man barricade to Rosier's path. The light cast an eerie hue across his wrinkled, scarred face, and his voice was gruff and relentless when he spoke.

"You're surrounded, lad," he growled. "Come quietly and there'll be no trouble."

There was no mistaking the look of panic which promptly coated Rosier's face. The sandy-haired wizard reeled around in disbelief only to find the other Aurors appearing from behind crumbling monuments and deserted buildings. Each had his or her wand poised for attack should Rosier resist. There was nowhere to run, no outlet for escape. It was hopeless.

The events that took place next occurred in mere seconds, yet they seemed to stretch on much longer. Severus wasn't particularly surprised when he saw Rosier raise his wand. He had, after all, said he'd rather die than go to Azkaban. It was unclear to Severus who actually cast the first spell, though. It might have been Rosier in a last frantic attempt to save himself; it might have been an Auror in an act of defense against Rosier's open defiance. Either way, the alley was soon alight with sparks and flashes from curses and hexes.

Within moments, there were scorch marks on the buildings, rubble in the streets, and shouts in the air. There were few passersby in this part of the city and at this hour of the early morning, but those unfortunate enough to happen by the scene had stopped to stare. Muggles, wizards – in the rain and confusion, Severus wasn't certain anymore who was who anymore, but it didn't matter. Instead, he wondered how long Rosier, outnumbered, would be able to survive.

And then Severus had his answer.

Moody was advancing on Rosier. They were on the pier now, Rosier backing up towards the water as the grizzled Auror cornered him. There was nowhere for him to turn now; cold black water surrounded him on three sides and certain Azkaban on the fourth. There was something like a trapped animal in Rosier now – a wildness in his expression that said that although he knew it was futile to resist, he was going to do so anyway. Better to die than to spend a lifetime as a captive. Holding his breath in the shadows nearby, Severus watched apprehensively. If he wasn't careful, Rosier was going to get precisely this wish.

"Don't be foolish, lad," Moody tried to reason with him. "Lower your wand."

The way Rosier clung to his wand, though, made it immediately evident that logic was useless on him by this point. He had come too far to surrender. "Never!" he cried, shaking his head defiantly.

In the next instant, Rosier did the most foolish thing yet that night: he aimed his wand menacingly at Moody, teeth clenched and ready, perhaps, to kill. Barely before the incantation had escaped his lips, Moody retaliated. One moment, there was a burst of light from both their wands. In the next moment, Moody had a hand to his nose, which was bleeding profusely. Rosier, however, was tumbling backwards, arms flailing. He was on the edge of the pier now, and as he lost his balance, his arms thrashed all the more desperately at the air, at the nothingness that was there to save him. An involuntary scream escaped his lips as he crashed, back first, into the water below.

It was difficult to distinguish Rosier's cries over the rain and river. He struggled valiantly against the Thames, but it was useless. The storm surged and the angry current swept over him. The black water enveloped him, breaking over his head and pulling him further out, further down the river. Rosier was gasping for breath; he was gurgling, howling. He was bobbing up only to be pulled down. He was, Severus realised with dread, drowning.

Severus watched as that familiar blonde head vanished from sight. His shouts faded, and his splashing lessened in frequency and intensity. Then, there was nothing – no sounds but the pummeling of the rain and the clapping of the Thames against the banks. In the darkness, it was too difficult to tell if Rosier had been pulled under the water indefinitely or if he had been dragged too far down the river to see. Either way, a damp, untimely death was promised him.

Trembling, Severus withdrew and leaned back against the wall of the abandoned factory which had concealed him from sight. It was the same wall Rosier himself had stood near just moments before. The damp bricks pressed into him, leaving faint imprints on the back of his robes. Each mark served as a grim reminder that everything he had just witnessed, as shocking and impossible as it seemed, had been real.

A stark chill ran through Severus' veins, and he shivered involuntarily. In a matter of mere hours, Rosier's lifeless body would wash ashore further downriver. There would be great gasps of grief from Florence Feather; her fiancé may not always have been faithful, but she loved him just the same. Solemnly, Rosier's mother would box up his flat, folding his robes as she wondered what she would have had to sacrifice to what evil powers in exchange for the chance to have spent one last moment with her only son. There would be an article in _The Daily Prophet_ outlining the events that lead to Rosier's demise, hailing Alastor Moody a hero. In time, no one would remember the jovial young man, the sandy-haired wizard known for his loyalty and wit. If they recalled Rosier at all, it would be as a criminal, a fugitive and murderer – albeit a reluctant one – whose own stubborn foolhardiness had lead to his death.

But Severus would know the truth. He would never forget his often misguided but generally well-intentioned best friend. The evening had been a grim reminder for him of his own mortality, how Rosier's fate could just as easily have been his. He had, after all, only just narrowly escaped with his life. What Jane and the baby would have done without him had it been his corpse the Aurors were now concentrated on retrieving from the Thames, Severus did not know. Nonetheless, he knew better than to wait around and find out.

* * *

The confusion that resulted from the scene of Rosier's death had proved a useful diversion, and after slipping deeper into the safety of London's darkest shadows, Severus had Apparated back to the cottage. He stumbled up the walkway and towards the front door, weak with the horror of all he had just witnessed. It went without saying that he had felt better, and he knew he certainly had looked better. His sheath of hair clung to his head and neck in dark, damp clumps. His cloak, soaked and mud-stained, had taken much abuse over the past few hours and was now torn and frayed, and as Severus staggered through the front door of the cottage, he trembled uncontrollably.

The foyer was dark and silent. The faint ticking of the grandfather clock in nearby study was the only sign of movement in the house. It was only when he looked up that he saw her: Jane, sitting at the top of the stairs in her nightgown. A solitary candle burned at her feet. Down to a mere stub, it illuminated the hallway, casting a mysterious glow across the blue hem at her ankles. She had been waiting for him, patiently watching the door below for this very moment when he returned. It was clear to him that despite the lateness of the hour, she hadn't slept. There were grey shadows under her eyes and a pink puffiness in the corners that revealed she had spent the majority of her evening crying instead. Undoubtedly, Jane had been bemoaning their quarrel over the baby, tormenting herself as she recounted each horrible moment.

"Severus!" she gasped with relief when she saw him.

In an instant, Jane was bounding down the stairs towards him, hurrying to wrap her arms around him as though in hope that the strength of her embrace could squeeze away the bitterness of their last conversation. So much had changed in the short time that had passed since he'd last stood before her, and watching her move towards him, Severus couldn't help but think of Rosier's final words to him.

_You've got a family now_, Rosier had pleaded with him. _Don't bollocks it all up like I have._

As he rushed forward to meet her half way on the staircase, her bloodshot eyes and his sodden cloak were at once utterly meaningless. Their argument of earlier seemed trivial, and Severus was instantly flooded with remorse – shame for the cruel things he had said to her and for the sheer selfishness of his reaction. It was a regret he would carry with him for the rest of his life. Standing on the third step from the bottom, he clung to her desperately. His arms scarcely seemed long enough, strong enough. If they were, he would have wrapped them around her again and again to ensure that she never left his side.

It had taken the death of a friend to force Severus to realise that he had things most men would willingly give their lives for – a home, a wife, a child on the way. He had jeopardized it all tonight, gambled it because of his own recklessness and lack of appreciation.

It was a mistake he did not intend to duplicate.


	15. When Silence Speaks

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 14: When Silence Speaks

* * *

"Do you like it?" Jane asked as she ushered him into the small room, a proud grin on her face.

Pink. Everything was pink. The walls, the furniture, the blankets – even the little socks and sweaters Jane stayed up late into the night knitting. There were various shades of it, of course – pastels and mauves residing side-by-side in stripes and floral prints, cottons and satins. In the end, however, it was all essentially the same, all essentially pink. Jane had succeeded in converting their spare bedroom into a perfectly revolting rosy-hued nightmare. Severus didn't know whether to be ill or to rejoice at the sight of it, and so he compromised by wrinkling his brow in noncommittal pensiveness instead.

"You do realise that all this work will have been for naught if it's a boy, don't you?" was all he said in response.

Since Evan Rosier's death, Severus' attitude towards fatherhood had made marked improvement, but much to Jane's disappointment, he still referred to the baby as an inanimate object. Her face fell slightly, although she tried to conceal it by pretending to straighten the curtains.

"It's not going to be a boy," she informed him matter-of-factly. "It's a girl, Severus. I know it is."

"How can you be so sure?" he asked. He opened the top drawer of the nearby bureau to find an impeccably folded afghan inside. The blanket was embroidered with tiny bunnies which, he noted tacitly and with much amusement, bore salmon-colored bows around their necklines.

Jane looked up at him and shrugged. "Just a feeling I've had," she said as she rested her hands affectionately on the small swell of her abdomen. "Sometimes you just know."

Severus looked dubious. "Aren't you a bit sophisticated to be believing in superstition? I was under the impression that I had married a woman of science, not one of tea leaves."

Despite his exasperation, there was a playful glimmer in his black eyes, and Jane smiled. "My cousin Molly swears it's true," she told him. "She told me she knew with each of her sons – even the twins. She's due again in August, you know, and she insists that this time it's a girl. She says it's different than with the boys."

It sounded like rubbish to him. Nonetheless, Severus didn't doubt that Molly Prewett Weasley was an expert in child rearing. She and her blood traitor husband, he thought with distinct revulsion, had single-handedly taken it upon themselves to populate the wizarding world. He would have said as much, too, but the Weasleys were technically family through marriage and he did not wish to upset Jane. Besides, Severus couldn't deny that despite the noxious pink walls and flamboyant bunny afghans, the idea of a daughter appealed to him. A girl with Jane's soft, dark curls and his deep, communicative eyes. A little witch with Jane's demeanor and his intelligence. A daughter for Jane to fuss over and for him to dote on in ways he never experienced in his own childhood. Surely, if he was forced to father a child, he would have it no other way.

"Well, if Molly Weasley says it's true, then certainly it must be so," he replied, a hint of good-natured sarcasm to his tone.

Jane clicked her tongue and shook her head with mock disapproval. "Severus Ewan Snape, must you always behave so badly?"

"No, really," he insisted derisively. "Far be it for me to question the power of feminine intuition."

Chuckling, Jane started rifling through a trunk brimming with yet more baby things – toys this time, gifts from Augustus and Madeleine Swizzle in anxious anticipation of the birth of their first grandchild. They were the usual childhood diversions – stuffed animals which sang lullabies, dancing piggy banks, and the like. By the conspicuous absence of pink-colored items, Severus determined that his in-laws at least were sensible enough not to surrender to Jane's suppositions regarding the gender of the child. For this much, he was grateful.

"You know, Jane," he said as he helped her arrange a pyramid of teddy bears in the crib, "I really wish you wouldn't do so much work around the house. You'll overexert yourself."

"Don't be ridiculous, Severus," she scoffed. "I'm perfectly fine."

Despite her protestations, it seemed impossible to Severus that Jane's hectic schedule at St. Mungo's and zealous preparations for the baby could _not_ be taking a toll on her. Indeed, he couldn't help but notice the small shadows of tiredness lurking under her eyes and an atypical pallor in her cheeks.

"I'm sure my father could spare Zoe every now and then. She's not much help, but she'd be better than nothing," Severus continued. His voice was gentle but unmistakably authoritative, and he brought his fingertips to affectionately trace the swell of her cheek as he spoke.

Grinning, Jane stood on tip-toe to brush her lips against his pale cheek. "I'll think about it," she told him softly.

Such words, Severus knew, were far from acquiescence; Jane was too strong-willed and independent to allow him to dictate to her what she should and should not do. Consequentially, he pressed the matter further. "And what about the hospital?" he continued. "Is it wise to work much longer given your… condition?"

"I happen to enjoy my work, Severus," Jane told him as she turned back to the trunk.

Severus raised an eyebrow of skepticism. "You are – not so expertly, I might add – avoiding the question."

It was clear that Severus would not, as usual, be easily placated, and so Jane tried again. "You work too much, too, Severus," she reminded him patiently. "With your long unpredictable hours, you're hardly ever home, and when you are, you're either exhausted or in a foul mood."

A spasm of guilt rippled through Severus at her words. Although Jane could scarcely guess it, his erratic schedule had little to do with his apprenticeship and much more to do with the Dark Lord's potions demands. Nonetheless, she was right. Over the years, the lying and long hours, the unspeakable things he had seen and done were increasingly difficult to conceal, and more often than not, Jane had received the brunt of his sour disposition. It hadn't been intentional, of course, just a matter of convenience: she was there, and so she suffered because he did.

"That is beside the point, Jane," he replied tersely, his shame manifesting itself in defensiveness.

Abandoning the porcelain figurines she had taken to arranging on a shelf, Jane looked up at him purposefully. "Is it?" she challenged. "How so?"

"Because I am not – Merlin forbid – _pregnant_." Severus sputtered the last bit hurriedly, awkwardly, a flush filling his cheeks as though it was a foreign, forbidden word.

"Actually, I find it really quite relevant," Jane disagreed. "After all, I think I should have gone mad by now in your absences if it wasn't for St. Mungo's keeping me busy."

Severus faltered. Apparently, his absences had gone neither unnoticed nor un-resented. Indeed, staring at her, he saw that behind the glimmer in Jane's eyes, there was a shroud of sadness. Severus noticed that her grin was frail, threatening to shatter at any moment, and he realised that although she spoke in the pretense of lightheartedness, there was a terrible truth to her words. He had driven her away. He had been a disappointment to her, had virtually abandoned her in his selfish quest for the power and recognition that had been denied him by the likes of his father and James Potter. It was a sobering moment for Severus: in his determination to prove himself, he had succeeded only in alienating the lone person who had ever believed he was more than what others took him for.

"So I am a neglectful husband now, am I?" Severus mused darkly, his voice soft and hoarse.

Jane sighed and placed her hand tenderly on his arm – directly above where his Dark Mark lay dormant, he noted bitterly. "I love you, Severus," she assured him.

While he appreciated her sentiment, Severus could not help but notice that Jane had cleverly evaded his questions: She had neither consented to leave St. Mungo's nor repudiated the notion that he had been inattentive. She didn't need to; her silence communicated enough.

* * *

Severus had frowned when he'd seen the note from Jane. After all, they'd just quarreled about her long hours at St. Mungo's the night before, and here she was, working late once again without any indication of when she might be home. There was a shortage of Healers in Spell Damage this time; they needed her, and she hoped he could understand. The rest of the weekend – Easter holiday, don't forget – would be theirs. She promised. Signed with much love, Jane.

Irritably, Severus had crumpled the parchment and tossed it aside, earning a sidewise glance from the owl which had carried the post and was now looking at him expectantly, begging for a scrap of food to reward his services. Severus had glared at the creature, as though it was to blame for Jane's absence. The owl, greatly affronted, held its beak high in defiance and promptly soared out the window once again.

"Cheeky little bastard," Severus had grumbled after it.

Of course, the fact that Jane was working late made it easier for Severus when that familiar throbbing started to mount in his left forearm later that evening. Without Jane there, he hadn't needed to tell yet another trite lie, and he hadn't needed to feel any pang of guilt about leaving her. Therefore, as he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and placed his mask over his face, Severus found himself oddly relieved.

Now, as Severus Snape walked through the crowded London street, he felt anything but relief. It was a raid tonight – the Boneses – and the Dark Lord had called out his ranks en masse. Edgar Bones was, after all, the worst sort of blood traitor scum there was, the kind who wielded his wizarding know-how and reputation to work against the Death Eaters. As a result, it wasn't merely enough to kill him and his family; the Death Eaters had been instructed to make an example of the Boneses, a public display of the Dark Lord's wrath. It hadn't taken long before matters worsened, and the Boneses' mangled bodied and the Dark Mark hovering over their home was no longer enough to satisfy the Dark Lord's sense of vengeance. Soon, death and disorder lead to yet more death and disorder as the Death Eaters expanded the radius of their violence. They had taken to dragging Muggles from their homes, plucking them from their automobiles, and harassing them in the streets, torturing and killing them.

Through the shadows of night and their hoods and masks, it was difficult to discern the identities of the Death Eaters who had started these riots, but it was more than evident that it was a bloody night in Hammersmith and that the Ministry would have its share of memory modifications to perform before it had ended. The place was swarming with every overt sign of chaos possible. Hooded and masked Death Eaters flooded the streets, blasting anything and everything in sight with complete abandon. Severus had never seen so many of the Dark Lord's servants congregated at once. At one street corner, a Death Eater was setting fire to a Muggle home. Across the way, a duo of the hooded figures was smashing the windows of a black taxi. Further up the road, a group of them was torturing a Muggle family with the Cruciatus Curse.

This was only the beginning. The sky was illuminated with bursts from wands and the eerie glow of the Dark Mark overhead. The air resounded with pleas for mercy and hissed Killing Curses. Children were screaming, their mothers calling out to them and their fathers trying futilely to defend them. The bitter scent of smoke from burning buildings was carried on the breeze, so thick one could almost taste it. Both Aurors and Muggle police swarmed the streets, but they were outnumbered by Death Eaters and quickly overwhelmed in the confusion, their presence nearly useless for the time being.

And then Severus saw them: clad in lime-green robes, Healers were fussing over felled bodies, Muggle and wizard, alike. They gave aid to the wounded and Levitated away those beyond hope. Somewhere in between the Dark magic and mayhem, it occurred to Severus that Jane could easily be one of those Healers; she could be here. The Spell Damage specialists were bound to have been called out first, after all. Severus cringed to think how vulnerable she – an obviously pregnant, young woman – would be on these streets. There were physical dangers – crumbling buildings and poorly aimed incantations. Furthermore, the Death Eaters, mistaking her nonpartisan attempts to save life – Muggle or magical – might attack her. It was enough to turn Severus' blood cold to think of the number of ways they might seek to violate her. One thing became immediately apparent: this was no place for Jane to be.

With a sudden jolt of alarm, Severus started down the high street. If Jane was here, he had to find her. The streets were difficult to wade through, considering they were littered with bodies and debris and bustling people. Severus pushed past a crowd of Muggles wailing in front of their home, which was engulfed in flames, only to find the road blocked by a series of automobiles which had been turned on their sides. Severus reeled with frustration, nearly knocking over a Healer rushing past with a Levitated body.

"Jane Snape – have you seen her? Is she here?" Severus implored him, pulling him to his feet and gripping his robes anxiously.

The Healer only paled and backed away as though with fright. "Don't hurt me!" he whispered. "I don't want any trouble – I-I'm just here to help!"

Severus watch, baffled by this reaction, as the Healer promptly turned and struggled back through the throng, frantically trying to get away from him. It was only after the Healer had gone that Severus realised he had been staring at his mask and hood with obvious horror. Frustrated, the hook-nosed wizard ripped his hood from his head and shoved his mask in his pocket; that Healer may have known something of Jane, but because Severus bore the trademarks of the terror-inspiring Death Eater, he would never know. It was not the first and far from the last time that Severus Snape would regret his association with the Dark Lord.

"Fecking hell!" Severus burst with frustration, blasting an already-toppled black taxi with a wave of his wand. The action was useless but cathartic. The automobile gave a lurch, scraping against the pavement with a metallic cry, and as it skidded to a halt several more feet up the road and out of harm's way, Severus heard a new set of screams rising in its wake.

"No!" a woman was crying. "Leave him be! Please!"

Severus paused. He recognised that voice; he _knew_ that voice. Turning sharply, Severus saw that, in the alley to his left, his fears and suspicions were confirmed. Jane, clad in her green Healers' robes, was kneeling over a clearly unconscious Muggle boy, ostensibly with the intention of healing him. Her eyes were darting wildly, panic-stricken, as a circle of Death Eaters enclosed around her. It was hard to tell in the shadows, but Severus counted four or five of the masked figures, each with their wands raised ominously.

"He's just a child!" Jane was pleading, shielding the wounded boy with her own body. "You've already killed his parents!"

"This doesn't concern you, girl," barked the tallest one, clearly the leader of the group, stepping forward.

"Please don't do this… don't hurt him," Jane begged. "He hasn't done anything to you – he's innocent!"

Watching Jane guard the boy, Severus was vaguely reminded of the way his mother had, on more than one occasion, defended him against Darius so many years ago. At once, he felt the same defenselessness and despair that he had as a child. Circe Snape had suffered for the pains she had taken to try to protect her son, and Severus was loath to allow the Death Eaters to do the same to Jane. He started forward, struggling through the crowded street, but he was too late. What transpired next happened so fast, Severus wouldn't have been able to stop it even if he'd seen it in time.

"If you don't stand with us, then you stand against us," hissed the tall Death Eater. He turned to the rather stout wizard on his left then. "Remove this Muggle-loving filth," he commanded coldly. "Apparently she needs to be taught a lesson on what happens to Muggles and those who defend them."

The stout Death Eater moved towards Jane. He seized her arm, and she shrieked as he pulled her away from the wounded boy and threw her at the feet of the leader instead. The taller wizard dragged Jane to stand up again, and, grasping her tightly, he surveyed her with great interest, his eyes glowing lasciviously through the holes in his mask.

"I could think of a few other lessons I wouldn't mind teaching her as well," he sneered, bringing a hand to greedily trace over her body. "Of course," he added, bringing his hand over the swell of her womb, "it looks like she's already learned a thing or two."

There was a chorus of cruelly amused chuckles from the other Death Eaters, and an enraged flush filled Jane's cheeks. "Don't – touch – me," she seethed as she struggled against her captor's touch.

Her resistance, while futile, proved entertaining to the Death Eater, and he laughed wickedly and only forced himself upon her with increased determination. This time, however, he lowered his mouth to hers in a sloppy, demanding kiss. Jane gasped with horror into his open mouth and, pulling away, pursed her lips to spit bitterly upon his masked face instead. At this, the Death Eater flinched, startled. Angrily, he wiped the spittle from his mask with the cuff of his robes.

"Such a common, dirty, disgusting thing to do – something worthy of a Muggle," he hissed. He raised his fist to her then and brought it swiftly across her face. Jane gasped and reeled at the blow, tumbling backwards as the Death Eater threw her to the ground. "Since you seem to be so fond of Muggles, you can _die_ with them, too," he added.

Muttering an incantation Severus could scarcely distinguish over the roar of the chaos around him, the Death Eater raised his wand in an abrupt, slashing motion. Purple light burst forth from the tip of his wand and struck Jane squarely in the chest. Bringing a hand to clutch at her heart, Jane inhaled sharply, as though surprised. Then, with a whimper, she slumped over onto the ground, pale and motionless. The Death Eater chuckled with wicked approval of his handiwork and kicked mud in Jane's face before turning swiftly on his heel.

"Sodding Muggle-lover," he said with disdain.

It was a sentiment shared by the other Death Eaters in the group. They dispersed from the scene snarling obscenities and congratulating themselves on making a fine example of the meddlesome Healer to those who would aid Mudbloods and Muggles. By the time Severus burst through the crowd seconds later, they had blended entirely into the Dark and hooded scenery, indistinguishable against the throng of other Death Eaters and their victims.

Barely breathing, Severus heaved himself to the ground beside Jane. An involuntary sob escaped his lips at the sight of her abused form. Her robes were torn and caked with dirt, and her hair, which had once flowed in silken, raven waves was now tangled and matted. The healthy rosy hue which normally resided high in her cheeks had been replaced by a sickly grey, and she groaned, her head lolling and drooping, as he scooped her delicately into his arms.

"Jane!" he gasped, cleaning the mud from her face with his palm.

Her eyelids quivered and only just opened at the sound of his voice. She struggled to focus her gaze on him. However, if she recognised him – and he highly doubted that, in her current state of trauma, she was able to – she did not indicate such.

"Jane! Jane, look at me!" Severus pleaded with her.

Despite his entreaties, the dark brown centers of her eyes disappeared behind her fluttering eyelids once again. Desperately, Severus pressed Jane against his chest, holding her so close he could feel her increasingly shallow breaths against the crook of his neck. He entwined his fingers in hers and brought her hand to his lips, kissing it as he rocked her gently in his arms.

"Don't leave me, Jane," he implored between kisses.

He had never before considered the probability of Jane's dying, but as he watched the pallor increase in her cheeks, it became evident that such was inevitable. Confronted with this reality, Severus was haunted by their quarrel the night before, by the things Jane said and by the things she had spoken in silence – that he had neglected her, disappointed her, alienated her. There would never be a chance, Severus realised with panic, to improve or to even apologise.

"I'll be a better man," he promised urgently, as though she could hear him and that it would make a difference. It was the kind of a vow borne of a guilty conscience and prompted by utter despair. He would have committed himself to anything – regardless how vile – in those final moments if it meant a chance for Jane's survival. "I'll be there for you – I'll take care of you – I'll…"

Even as Severus spoke, though, her hand, limp and cold in his, slipped from his grasp; Jane was dead.

They say that in death, one's life passes before one's very eyes. The same, however, could be said for Severus as he watched Jane die. He saw her in stills – as though a Muggle photograph, unmoving and permanent. They were seven and testing potions on Zoe. Then they were fourteen and she was assuring him he'd receive Order of Merlin one day. One moment she was telling him that she was pregnant, and the next, she was here, dead in his arms.

It took Severus a moment to absorb the reality of the situation. Like the images, he sat still and strange. Around him the sounds of destruction continued to rage on, but they seemed suddenly insignificant now. Death Eaters had murdered his wife and unborn child. It had happened before his very eyes; he'd seen everything they'd done to Jane – the vile way they'd touched her and leered at her, how they had desecrated her body and left her for dead. Jane had been an innocent, a martyr. She hadn't provoked her killers, hadn't stood against them; all she had done was try to save life where they had taken it.

Severus shuddered. The mark served as a grim and permanent reminder that he was branded a brother of those who had so cruelly killed his wife. Severus had never been naïve; he had heard and seen the horrors his Death Eater brethren were capable of committing. Nonetheless, horror swept over him in waves at the notion that he should be bound to those capable of such heinous behaviour, that he had ever served as an advocate for Jane's eventual murderers.

Even more unbearable, Severus thought, was the notion that there had been no need for Jane to die. She should never have been here tonight; she might never have been here, in fact, if it wasn't for him. After all, as she had implied herself last night, he had long driven her away and she had sought solace in her work, the very work which killed her in the end. He was partially responsible, he realised, as his actions had contributed to the cause of her death. It was a horrible epiphany for Severus, and as he embraced Jane's lifeless body, a great wail of horror and anguish escaped his lips.

"I'm so sorry, Jane," he whispered to her corpse. "I'm so sorry."

His remorse was greeted only by silence, though, and in that silence, Severus understood that there would be no forgiveness for him – not from Jane's unmoving lips and certainly not from himself. Indeed, as Severus swept her motionless body in his arms and stood up, he knew what must be done: Death Eaters had killed his wife, and although he could never have forgiveness, he would have revenge.


	16. Behind the Mask

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 15: Behind the Mask

* * *

In truth, he had nowhere else to take her. St. Mungo's was useless at this point; he couldn't bear to face Augustus and Madeleine Swizzle, and his own family was nearly all aligned with the Dark Lord. But perhaps, Severus had realised, there _was_ a place he could go, a place he could guarantee Jane's body would be safe and treated with reverence. It was, after all, the one place where they had always been safe, shielded from the outside world: Hogwarts.

The school would very quiet, as the students wouldn't return from their Easter holiday for several more days, and Severus was hopeful that although he was a Death Eater, the legendary, learned headmaster might be decent enough to see to it that the martyred wife of one of his former students was given a proper burial. It was a risk, of course, as by subjecting himself to the mercy of Albus Dumbledore, the leader of the opposition against the Dark Lord, Severus was risking Azkaban. The hook-nosed young man shuddered at the thought of the prison where his mother had suffered, but he had no one else to turn to, no where else to go. If need be, Azkaban was a price he was willing to pay for his mistakes; it was a price he was willing to pay for Jane.

A cold, hard rain had begun to fall as Severus, still carrying Jane's lifeless body in his arms, stumbled up to the main entrance of Hogwarts. He'd Apparated as far as Hogwarts and had stumbled up the winding road towards the school from there. Exhausted, he felt his knees weaken as he staggered to the gate, and between the trauma of the evening and his own fatigue, Severus was only faintly aware of having collapsed in the mud at the door of the formidable castle he'd once called his home.

He wasn't completely positive how long he'd slept, but when he awoke at last, it was in the Hogwarts hospital wing. Bleary-eyed, Severus blinked, trying to take in his surroundings and recall the events that had brought him back to this familiar setting. The beds seemed smaller than when he was a student, the sheets rougher, and the room draftier. What startled him the most, though, was that Albus Dumbledore was standing over him, smelling salts in hand and a sad twinkle in his eyes. He was mumbling something – that damn man _always_ mumbled – but Severus couldn't quite make out his words.

It took a moment, but the memory of the night's events came flooding back to him in grim lucidity – the violence of the streets, Jane dead at the hands of unknown Death Eaters, his resolve to see her avenged. As the images overwhelmed him, Severus struggled to sit up. "Jane!" he gasped. "Where's my wife?!" He clutched desperately at Dumbledore, suddenly wide-eyed and furious, anxious for answers.

The headmaster, however, remained placid, a fact which only served to increase the hook-nosed young wizard's frustration. "Relax, Severus," he said calmly, trying to ease him into lying back down. "Jane is being well taken care of, I assure you."

Dumbledore nodded in the direction of the far end of the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey and Argus Filch stood fussing over one of the beds. The body was delicately draped in a white sheet, but the feminine curves were still distinguishable. Undoubtedly, it was Jane's corpse beneath that shroud. If Severus had been foolish enough to harbor any delusions that the events of the past few hours, as wretched and surreal as they had been, had actually taken place, they were instantly shattered.

"It was Death Eaters… The raid on the Boneses, and Jane... She-she was helping a Muggle boy… And they killed her," Severus choked, trying to explain in halting, increasingly hysterical syllables. He turned back to look at Dumbledore then, his eyes wide and dark and wild. "They killed her right in front of me!"

"There was nothing you could have done, Severus," the headmaster tried to soothe. "It's not your fault."

Such comfort was meaningless, though, as Severus _knew_ better: he knew that he was a Death Eater, that he shared in their guilt by mere association; he knew Jane would never have been there if it hadn't been for him. There were so many times he could have stopped the chain of events that lead to her death – after Regulus Black was murdered, after Jane told him she was pregnant, after Evan Rosier's death – but he never did. Rosier had begged him not to make a bollocks of his life. It appeared, however, that Severus had managed to do so with alarming brilliance nonetheless, and Jane had ultimately paid the price for his mistakes.

There was nothing Severus could do to unmake the past, but there was something he could do to rectify the wrongs of the present. With a sudden thrashing motion, Severus thrust the blankets off him and got to his feet. Vengeance was all he had left now, and he struggled to lace up his boots and collect his wand in preparation to make good on that vow.

"What do you intend to do, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, intently watching the young man whose back now faced him.

Severus whirled around to face Dumbledore with a determined glint in his eye. His knuckles were white from clenching his wand so tightly, and his face, pale with fury, was bent in a furious scowl.

"I'm going after them, of course," he spat bitterly.

The headmaster raised a hand in gentle protest. "Severus, you're not thinking clearly," he said. "You can't go attack the Death Eaters. You'll get yourself killed."

"Then let them kill me!" he hissed. "Let me die trying!"

"I won't let you go, Severus," Dumbledore insisted with a calm that sharply contrasted to the rage of the young man before him. "Not now – not yet."

Severus glowered. "Death Eaters murdered my wife and unborn child," he seethed through clenched teeth. "They have taken from me everything I once held precious. Because of them, I have nothing, no cause, no purpose, no hope – none except to help destroy them, to take away from them as they have taken away from me."

He was intense now, flecks of spit spewing from his mouth and a crazed look in his eyes. With a fluid, furious stride, he swept towards the bed where Jane's corpse rested, nearly bowling Filch and Madam Pomfrey out of his way.

"Look what they've done to her!" Severus bellowed, indicating the body. "Look at her! How can I not want justice?!"

Dumbledore raised a knowing eyebrow. "It is not justice of which you speak, Severus," he pressed, a bit more forcefully now. "You talk of revenge, of a pure and simple lust for blood. You talk of making the problem worse than it already is."

An irate flush filled Severus' cheeks. "So what if I am?!" he roared. "What right have you to deny me my anger?!"

The headmaster sighed. "I'm not denying you your anger, Severus," he corrected. "I'm merely asking you to consider what benefit will be reaped from letting it get the better of you."

Severus' eyes narrowed into distinctly displeased slits. "I'm afraid I haven't your patience for consideration, Dumbledore," he growled, brushing past him and stalking towards the door.

By now, the headmaster had seen enough of Severus' passion to realise that should he be allowed to leave the castle, he would be capable of doing something quite foolish. Between the Boneses, Jane, and the Muggles of Hammersmith, enough life had been lost tonight, and Albus Dumbledore was loath to add Severus Snape to their numbers. He had to be stopped. In a sudden, genteel sweeping motion, the headmaster had his wand from his robes and aimed at the hook-nosed young wizard. Instantly, thin but wiry bands of cord erupted from the tip of his wand and coiled around Severus' arms and legs, binding him mid-motion. The latter's wand fell from his hands, and he tripped and stumbled to the floor at the Dumbledore's feet, bound like an animal. Stunned and infuriated, Severus glared up at the headmaster, a steam of foul language and incantations he lacked the magic to actualize spewing from his mouth.

Dumbledore wasn't listening, though. "Poppy, Mr. Snape is quite hysterical," he was saying to the nurse. "Please fetch me a Sleeping Draught to help calm him."

Hearing this, Severus twisted against the cords that bound him with even greater fervor and greater profanity. Moments later, he was cognizant of Dumbledore pressing a vial to his lips. The Sleeping Draught. Indeed, a sweetish, watery substance trickled down his throat despite his efforts to resist, and after a moment, he felt too drowsy to struggle any more. And so, Severus surrendered: he lay on the floor in the headmaster's arms like a child, growing increasingly debilitated by the moment.

"You will do no great honour to Jane's memory if you get yourself killed tonight, Severus," Dumbledore said softly, looking down on his captive with surprising gentleness.

It was the last thing Severus remembered before his eyes closed and he sank into a dark, dreamless sleep.

* * *

"How are you feeling today, Severus?" asked Albus Dumbledore pleasantly.

Severus stumbled into the headmaster's office with a scowl and threw himself into a chair with a motion of familiarity. He remembered this office all too well from his days as a Hogwarts student. Thanks to the constant enmity between himself and James Potter and Sirius Black, he'd sat in this very chair quite a few times before. This time, however, circumstances were quite different.

"Hung over," the pallid young man replied. His voice was barely audible, and he cradled his head in his hands. "That Sleeping Draught you gave me had too much asphodel. It's a miracle I'm still alive at all. Don't you have a competent Potions master on staff?!"

A small grin tugged at the corners of the headmaster's lips. "I'm pleased to see the Draught hasn't affected your disposition," he observed.

Severus snorted and rubbed his wrists, which were sore and bruised from his struggles against the headmaster's cords last night.

"Ah, yes, I apologize for binding you last night, Severus – it was the only way I could stop you. You were not rational, and you would have done yourself great harm if I'd left you to your own devices," Dumbledore explained.

"Perhaps," the younger wizard replied with a frown. He opened his mouth to continue but paused awkwardly, his voice trailing off as he noticed something unusual resting on the headmaster's desk.

His Death Eater mask.

The mask must have fallen out of his pocket last night in the midst of his hysteria and now Dumbledore had seen it; Dumbledore knew what he was. Severus paled and trembled with a mixture of shame and self-loathing. Under the headmaster's watchful stare, he reached towards the mask and took the horrid thing his hands. The empty holes for his eyes stared eerily at him, a haunting reminder of the hollowness of the Dark Lord's promises and the shell of a man he had become while in his service.

"I was one of them. That's why I was there – that's how I saw what happened," Severus croaked, his voice catching in his throat, crackling like it hadn't done in nearly ten years.

"I did this to her... Jane wouldn't have been there last night if it wasn't for me – if I hadn't pushed her away," he continued in a bitter whisper. "She deserved better from me. All I gave her were lies and a failing marriage. It was only a matter of time before she left me… And the baby – I didn't want the baby… I threatened to abort it… And now they're both dead…

"And I killed…" He paused to swallow hard. "I helped kill Regulus Black – I made the poison that Rosier used. I buried him with my own two hands. Right here – in the Forest. Merlin only knows how many others died or were hurt because of me and what I did, the potions I made… All those poisons must have been meant for someone, and I never asked… I never cared…"

Severus looked up at the headmaster then, waiting for the reprimand, the punishment, the threat of Azkaban that he was sure awaited him. A reprimand did not come, however. Instead, Severus was greeted by the headmaster's patient, placid gaze. "No lecture? No moralistic preaching from the great Albus Dumbledore?" he asked in disbelief.

Folding his hands patiently in his lap, Dumbledore shook his head. "I think we're a bit beyond lectures at this point, Severus," he replied. "Don't you?"

"More like Azkaban," Severus muttered under his breath as he nodded in dismal agreement. "You always knew I'd end up like this, didn't you?"

Dumbledore peered meaningfully at him from over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. "I always knew you were walking a tenuous line, Severus," he said quietly. There was no sense of anger or shock in his voice, though. Just sadness – pity, even. "I tried to warn you, but the choice was ultimately yours to make."

There was no point trying to contest the validity of the headmaster's words. Severus recalled with uncomfortable clarity the precautionary subtleties behind Dumbledore's words during each of their previous conversations – how he'd reminded him of Circe Snape's sacrifice and expressed concern with his lack of ability to control his emotions. He could only imagine how much it had probably pained Dumbledore to watch his advice go unheeded, to see Severus sink deeper into the recesses of rage and resentment with each passing year. After all, however powerful a wizard the headmaster was, there was no incantation, no enchantment that could diminish free will.

"The question is, Severus," the headmaster continued gently, "what you will do now that you have been given the chance to choose again."

"I forfeited all rights to second chances the minute I took the Dark Mark," Severus mused darkly.

"That's where you're wrong, Severus," Dumbledore corrected. "You always have a choice."

For Severus, though, it wasn't so much a choice as it was a fact: Returning to the service of the Dark Lord was not merely something he wouldn't do; it was something that he _couldn't_ do. Jane's broken body downstairs in the hospital wing stood testament to this truth. Severus couldn't stand among the Death Eaters, knowing that some among them had murdered his wife, their identities forever concealed behind their masks. To do so would be to make a mockery of the love he had for Jane and for their child, to turn his back on a lifetime of memories and feelings. It would be to deny himself the most fundamental elements of Slytherinness that dwelled in his very blood – the anger, the grudge, the innate impulse to protect himself and his own.

As Severus stood up and walked over to the window, he realised that his choice was made for him, that it had been before he was even cognizant of alternatives. "I can't go back to them – not after what they did to Jane," he spat, jaw clenched and eyes stony with anger.

Such a statement hardly seemed to surprise Dumbledore. "No, no, I didn't expect that you would," he agreed softly.

"But nor can I just sit idly, watching you all struggle against them," Severus added. He paused dramatically then, and when he turned back to at the headmaster, there was a passionate gleam in his dark eyes. "Let me join you," he said suddenly, strongly.

It was spoken with such conviction that it caught Albus Dumbledore off guard. He froze and regarded Severus with a strange fascination, simultaneously amused and more than a little bewildered. "Join _me_, Severus?" he inquired, prompting his former student to elaborate.

The younger wizard nodded excitedly. He was pacing about the headmaster's office now, fists clenched with determination. "I know you're working against the Death Eaters. I've known since I was a child – when I heard the Dark Lord talking to my father about trying to bar you from Hogwarts," Severus explained. "And I can help you – I can name names; I can name places; I can lead you to countless Death Eaters."

Leaning back in his chair, the headmaster pressed his long fingertips together contemplatively. "And how do you propose to do this, Severus? One cannot merely defect from Voldemort's service. It's not that simple. You are bound by Dark magic; the Death Eaters will find you, and if they suspect you are not loyal, they will kill you."

Severus gave an involuntary shudder at the mention of his master's name. He hesitated a moment, turning over the headmaster's words in his mind. "I'm close to the Death Eaters," he said at last. "I can go back to them as if I never left – maintain their trust – and I can pass whatever I learn on to you… I can spy."

The headmaster leaned back pensively in his chair. "Espionage," he mused. "I cannot deny that our cause could benefit greatly from information such as you could provide us. The Ministry is in turmoil, the Order of the Phoenix is small. Having someone close to the Death Eaters but loyal to the Order could prove invaluable." He sighed then and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "However, what you're suggesting will be highly dangerous, Severus. Voldemort will kill you without hesitation if you are discovered. Are you willing to risk dying?"

"I've seen what the Dark Lord does to traitors," Severus said coldly, recalling the vision of Regulus Black's corpse in the Forest. "I know what I'm risking, and I wouldn't be able to live with myself otherwise."

The headmaster brought a hand to his bearded chin, pensively massaging it as he carefully evaluated the young man before him. "And what do you have to gain by doing this, Severus? Are you seeking redemption?"

"No," Severus said firmly, his black eyes flickering with a strange fire. "That's too lofty an ideal for me. I don't deserve it, anyway. But it would be an insult to you and to your cause if I pretended I was being altruistic. What I want is simple enough." His voice turned low and dangerous then as he continued. "I want revenge – justice, as you so put it last night."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow of alarm. "Your bloodlust won't bring Jane back, Severus," he said in a tone of warning.

"I know," Severus replied forcibly. "But it _can_ justify her death."

There was little doubt in Dumbledore's mind regarding the sincerity of Severus' offer – no, it wasn't quite an offer; it was more of a plea. Severus had proven long ago that Dumbledore could trust him; the young man had, after all, never told a soul – not even Jane, he suspected – that Remus Lupin was a werewolf. And there was that passionate glimmer in his dark eyes, an odd energy. It would have been difficult if not downright inhumane to try to deny Severus the sense of loss that he felt and his need to see justice done. Few men in his position would feel otherwise.

However willing Severus was, though, the logistics of espionage was another story. Going back to the Death Eaters and maintaining a convincing façade would be difficult. If anyone could manage it, though, it would be a wizard whose cunning and resourcefulness matched that of the Dark Lord himself. It would be a Slytherin – a quintessential Slytherin, at that – a Slytherin not unlike the young man before him. Albus Dumbledore was loath to a send a man to certain death, but perhaps such was not the case with Severus Snape. Indeed, he had Slytherin shrewdness in his favor as well as personal motivation for his choices that few others possessed.

"If you allow me to do this, I swear that I will dedicate my life to destroying the Death Eaters," Severus reiterated, seeing the older wizard's hesitancy. "I will not fail you; I want this too badly."

Dumbledore saw the determination blazing brilliantly in the eyes of the young man before him. He remembered all too well Severus' disposition from his days as a student, and consequentially, he knew that the young wizard before him was quite obstinate. There would be no dissuading him now that he had decided what he wanted to do, and it would be futile for Dumbledore to try to talk him out of it.

The headmaster sat silently a moment, staring contemplatively at the young man before him. "Very well then, Severus," he said at last. "Very well."


	17. The Lawful and the Damned

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 16: The Lawful and the Damned

* * *

Jane never knew that he was a Death Eater. It would take Severus Snape several years of tormenting himself over the circumstances surrounding her death, but in the end he found that for this much at least, he could be grateful. Of course, the fact that Jane never knew the extent of his failure was of little comfort to Severus now as he stared mournfully down at the casket before him. He ran his hand over the smooth, dark wood, caressing it one last time as though the gentle longing of his touch could somehow massage life back into the corpse within. He withdrew only when Dumbledore nodded to Filch and Hagrid: It was time to bury Jane.

Severus watched in silence as the caretaker and the gamekeeper guided the Levitated casket into one of the marble vaults in the catacombs beneath Hogwarts. It was quite an honour that Jane should be buried here, as the mausoleum was typically reserved for the gravesites of only the most worthy witches and wizards – school headmasters, respected politicians, members of the Order of the Merlin and the like. Severus had been speechless when the headmaster told him of his intentions to make Jane's grave among such celebrated figures, but upon reflection, he'd agreed that it seemed only right to commemorate her sacrifice in such a way. After all, Jane had been so brave – something she must have inherited from her mother's side of the family, Severus thought grimly, recalling how two of Madeleine Prewett Swizzle's nephews had recently died fighting Death Eaters. Severus had never considered Jane a particularly brave person – not the foolish sort who took careless risks like a few Gryffindors he could think of, anyway. And yet, in merely doing what was right, what was her duty, she had displayed strength of character and a sense of honor.

Once Jane's casket had been carefully stowed inside the mausoleum, Dumbledore raised his wand and sealed the tomb with a gentle flick of his wrist. No sooner had the marble vault been closed than the letters marking the grave spontaneously appeared across it. _Jane Snape and Child, Martyrs_, the elegant script read. Heaving a sigh, Severus reached out to run his fingertips over the inscription, tracing each letter with a delicately and deliberately, as though to ingrain them onto his palm and into his mind. So intense was his meditation on the writing that he was only dimly aware of Dumbledore placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder moments later.

"We'll leave you now," the headmaster said softly.

Severus nodded faintly to acknowledge Dumbledore's words. Although he was loath to admit it, there was a piece of Severus that wished the older wizard to stay, that needed someone – anyone – to serve as a witness to the loss of Jane. As Dumbledore lead a solemn Filch and a weepy Hagrid out of the catacombs, though, the pallid young wizard was mostly grateful for the solitude.

It was there, alone in the dimly lit catacombs that, for the first time since the night his mother had been sentenced to Azkaban so many years ago, Severus Snape cried. He was hesitant at first. It startled him to feel the hot, damp streams trickling down his cheeks, and he brought his hands to his face and dipped his fingers in the salty pools in awe of their novelty. Then, finding the release cathartic, Severus cried harder. He sobbed for the angry little boy who'd haunted his father's Dark library and for the bitter young man who had brewed the poison that killed Regulus Black. He wept for the evenings he should have spent with Jane and for the pink nursery that would never be inhabited. He wailed for the choices he had made, for the things he had done, and for the vengeance he had yet to seek.

As Severus cried, his raspy voice and jagged breaths echoed eerily in the arches of the stone structure surrounding him. He shivered. He was surrounded by death, and yet alive as he knew he was, he felt oddly as though he belonged here among the corpses. Despite the blood flowing threw his veins, Severus was in many ways a walking dead man: dead in his heart, dead in his mind, and doomed to die a traitor's death at the hand of the Dark Lord in a mere matter of time.

* * *

Severus didn't know how long he had spent staring at Jane's grave, tormenting himself with his memories of her and having startling revelations of how her death had been his fault. When he emerged from the catacombs, however, the sun could be seen setting though the windows and the torches that lined the corridors leading to the headmaster's office were already lit. It seemed a longer walk to Dumbledore's tower than Severus remembered it having been earlier that day. With a great sense of relief, he muttered the password – "ice mice" – to the gargoyle guarding the entrance and ascended the spiral stairs to the office above.

Whatever it was that Severus had expected upon entering the headmaster's tower, it certainly wasn't the sight that now greeted him. Rather than finding Dumbledore alone, hunched over some paperwork or perhaps offering a nibble of something sweet to Fawkes, Severus discovered that the headmaster had company – Minerva McGonagall, James and Lily Potter, and Arthur Weasley, to be exact. They sat about the room, brows furrowed and deep in conversation. Severus halted abruptly when he saw them and tried to back out of the room, but it was too late. Their chatter fell to a quick silence, and they looked at him expectantly.

"I-I'm sorry, Headmaster," Severus stammered. "I didn't know you had company."

Dumbledore's eyes only twinkled warmly. "No, no, please come in, and have a seat," he replied, immediately Conjuring a chair for the hook-nosed young man beside Minerva McGonagall.

As Severus reluctantly sat down, he felt every set of eyes in the room upon him. They stared heavily at him, betraying that they knew what he had done – they knew that he was a Death Eater and a killer, that Jane was dead, and that he was partially responsible. Severus squirmed uncomfortably. He couldn't bear their eyes boring into him with that odd combination of loathing, suspicion, and pity. It made him feel monstrous, barbarous, and it was all he could do to maintain his composure until Albus Dumbledore, sensing Severus' discomfort in his ever-omniscient fashion, cleared his throat to distract their gazes.

"Mr. Snape will be staying at Hogwarts as my guest until he can set his affairs in order," the headmaster informed them authoritatively as though to curtly put an end to their stares. "Now, as I was saying –"

Dumbledore was unable to finish his sentence, however, as another intrusion promptly distracted the attention of everyone present. A rather tall man stepped into the room, his footsteps thumping dully on the floor as he drew closer. He had a distinctive appearance: unkempt dark grey hair and a face gnarled by scars, the battle wounds of years of dangerous magic and mis-magic. Most notable, though, was the sizable chunk of flesh that was missing from the man's nose. The wound was so unsightly that if Severus hadn't known to expect it – if he hadn't been there the night it had happened – he may have been startled by it.

"Merlin's beard, what's _he_ doing here?!" Alastor Moody barked, his magical eye suddenly spinning with wild disapproval as he surveyed Severus Snape.

Behind his desk, Dumbledore remained perfectly placid. "Alastor, calm yourself," he said gently.

"Calm myself?! Albus, he's a _Death Eater_!" Moody snarled, incredulous.

The headmaster raised his eyebrows and peered weightily over the rims of his spectacles. "I trust him, Alastor, and while I don't expect you to be able to set aside your suspicions, I ask you at least to value my assessment of the situation," he explained calmly but forcibly.

"They're more than suspicions," the Auror protested, his jaw tensed angrily. "I saw him helping the fugitive Rosier, and I have reason to believe he was an accomplice to the murder of the Black boy."

"Mr. Snape has asked for reprieve, and I have granted it," Dumbledore replied, standing up behind his desk to emphasize the power of his words.

"Reprieve?!" Moody repeated in great shock and disbelief. "So that's it, is it? There are no consequences for his actions? No price to be paid for his reckless disregard for human life?"

The headmaster turned his warm, patient eyes to Severus then and stared at him meaningfully. "I think that in the days and weeks and years to come, Severus will punish himself enough with his own guilt," he said evenly, clearly. "And that, Alastor, is far worse than any retribution we could seek for him."

It was clear, however, from the scowl that crossed Moody's lips that he was distinctly unconvinced of both Dumbledore's faith in Severus and in the power of the young man's conscience to torment him sufficiently. "Albus, this is madness! I cannot permit this to happen," he seethed. "He belongs in Azkaban."

Then, before anyone could stop him, the grizzled wizard had crossed the room and grabbed Severus viciously by the collar of his robes. A chorus of gasping noises resounded throughout the room as Moody raised his wand to Severus ominously. The hook-nosed young man flinched at the suddenness of his movements, and he cowered beneath the Auror, cheeks pale and eyes wide.

"You may have been able to convince Dumbledore, but I know better, Snape," Moody growled, shaking Severus with his every syllabus. "I know what you are, and I know what you've done!"

There was little else Severus could concentrate on in those moments besides the sparks shooting from Moody's wand and the way his eye whirled maniacally as he threatened him. There had been moments in the past in which Severus felt he was so close to Azkaban he could practically feel the chill of the dementors around him, but never before had the threat of prison seemed more real to him than now, as Mad-Eye Moody hovered menacingly above him. As a result, he was only faintly aware of the commotion rising in the room and of Lily Potter protesting the Auror's cruelty.

"James, stop him!" she cried urgently to her husband.

The next moment, James Potter and Arthur Weasley were prying Moody's fingertips from Severus' collar and trying to coax him into calm. It was only with great reluctance that Moody stepped back, still glaring, and his disfigured face contorted with a mixture of skepticism and loathing.

"Dumbledore can only protect you for so long," he barked, "and before this war is over, I will see to it that you're in Azkaban."

An awkward silence pervaded as the Auror made his way to a chair on the opposite side of the room. Although time had proven that Alastor Moody had nothing but respect for Albus Dumbledore, the scowl on his face served as a testament of his disapproval of the headmaster's decision. Moody's sentiment was not shared by the others, Severus quickly noted. Lily, for one, was watching him intently, trying to catch his eye as though to communicate her sympathy. He avoided her gaze and busied himself instead by straightening his robes. Her pity, coupled with the humiliation of being delivered from Moody by the duet of his childhood nemesis and the likes of Jane's mudblood-loving cousin, was too much to bear.

Of course, Lily's approval and Moody's lack thereof was of little consequence to Severus. Instead, it was the truth of the Auror's words that remained with him long after the headmaster cleared his throat and resumed conversation: As powerful a wizard as Dumbledore was, there _was_ no guarantee he would be able to preserve Severus from a doom like Azkaban for long. And when that dreadful moment of truth arrived, Severus had a feeling that a fate far worse than prison awaited him.

Severus had a feeling that he would have the Dark Lord to reckon with.

* * *

Much to Severus' dismay, it was Lily Potter who led him to the quiet chamber in Slytherin House that Dumbledore had designated for his use later that evening. Severus said nothing as she showed him through the dark corridors, down stairs, and around corners. Lily tried to be kind to him, but she'd known him too long to think he might actually appreciate her soft words. In all their years at Hogwarts, there had been precious few people she had seen Severus respond positively to, and although she had tried on more than one occasion to befriend him, Lily was definitely not one of them.

The suite was large, comprised of a sitting area and a separate bedroom, and upon their entrance a fire was already roaring at the hearth, as if the room had been expecting them. Decked in emerald-coloured tapestries and ornate silver sconces, it was not unlike how Severus recalled the rooms he had shared with Rosier, Wilkes, Avery, and Rodolphus Lestrange. Comfortably, he strode to the center of the suite and stood before fireplace and waited for Lily to leave.

Lily lingered several more moments than Severus wished she had, lighting a candelabra or two on a table by the door and setting out some clean linens for him. He didn't thank her, and she didn't really expect him to. Such a gesture would be out of character for the Severus Snape she knew, so she worked quickly and quietly, secretly hoping as much as he did that she could just leave.

"Severus, I… I wanted to say I am so sorry about what the Death Eaters did to Jane and the baby," Lily told him when she had finished.

Severus only continued to stand, staring obstinately into the fire with his back to her. "Thank you for the sentiment, Mrs. Potter," he said brusquely.

His coldness only moved her to greater kindness. "Jane and I were quite good friends at school, if you remember," Lily continued gently. "You must know she cared very deeply for you."

If her words were meant to be comforting, they had failed miserably. Years later, Severus would still be unsure if he had been closer to sorrow or rage at Lily's persistence. Either way, he refused to tolerate her presence any longer. "Will that be all, Mrs. Potter?" he asked sharply, staring into the fireplace all the more intently.

Although he couldn't see her, Lily nodded, greatly subdued by his harshness, and started to retreat into the corridor once again. "Good night, Severus," she whispered as she closed the door behind her. "Do try to sleep."

But despite Lily's well wishes, Severus had anything but a good night, and when he did sleep, it was fitfully, jerking his eyes open amidst the nightmares in a desperate attempt to avoid the images and cries racing through his mind. Sometimes he would see Jane as the Death Eaters mocked her or as she lay dying in his arms. Sometimes he'd find himself in a cell in Azkaban or beneath dementors preparing for a Kiss, and still other times, there was the Dark Lord hovering over him, cackling wickedly as he raised his wand in Cruciatus to torture the traitor at his feet.

Needless to saw, on the third day – Sunday – Severus awoke feeling as wholly miserable as he had the previous morning. He looked down at the Dark Mark on his arm with revulsion. It had faded significantly by now, but its shadowy skull still lingered ominously on his pallid skin. Severus rubbed at it furiously, feverishly, as though in doing so he might be able to rub its loathsome form from his flesh. _Get off me!_ he thought desperately as he assaulted his arm. _Off! Off damned Mark!_ But the Mark remained, and Severus succeeded only in bruising himself in his furious attempts to rid himself of the symbol of his sins.

Arm throbbing, Severus took a seat at the desk in his chamber. There was only one way to purge him of his rage, of his vengeance, of his sins. He had pledged his services to Dumbledore, vowed to work from within the Dark Lord's ranks to destroy him. His determination to do so was no less now than it had been thirty-six hours before, when he'd carried Jane's lifeless to the castle. However, as Moody had warned, Dumbledore would not be able to protect him from the law forever, and so, withdrawing a parchment from the drawer of the drawers of the desk and dipping a quill in some ink, Severus set to work. He had to tell the headmaster everything he knew about the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters while he still had the freedom to do so.

Bringing the quill to the parchment, Severus carefully scrawled a heading in his trademark small and precise handwriting:

_The List of the Damned_

There was no turning back now, no easy way out, and even if presented with a painless alternative, Severus would not have accepted it. He wanted and needed this chance for revenge too badly. Feverishly, the sallow-skinned wizard plagued his brain, racking his memory for all the faces and places and secrets he had suspected were associated with the Dark wizard he's called his master. Anyone or anything suspicious he'd seen while in the company of the Dark Lord would do, as they could all prove valuable leads for the Order of the Phoenix.

He started with naming Death Eaters. Their names piled up in his mind so quickly that his feeble hand could scarcely keep pace in recording them. There were the Malfoys and John Travers, Darien Mulciber and Barty Crouch, Jr. Considering his inability to forgive the senior Crouch for his participation in the trial that sent Circe Snape to Azkaban, Severus scrawled this last name with a bittersweet pleasure. He hesitated, though, with the names that came next: the Lestranges. Rabastan and Rodolphus and Bellatrix. They were his family, his own flesh and blood, and with a stroke of his hand, he was condemning them.

Severus' reluctance to doom his cousins, though, was a mere trifle compared the name he recorded next:

_Darius Snape_

Despite how cruel Darius had been to him over the years – despite how he had tormented and abused him, the man _was_ his father, and Severus was loath to condemn him. Despite their differences, Pureblood families looked after their own, after all. Nonetheless, it had to be done; Darius had to be named if Severus was to be completely truthful, if he ever hoped to retain Dumbledore's trust. The headmaster knew the likes of Darius Snape too well not to at least suspect the man of Dark activity, and if Severus failed to name him, he would immediately raise suspicions of deceit. With retribution and Azkaban on the line, this was a risk he was not prepared to take.

Perhaps it was to assuage his conscience for betraying his cousins and father that Severus promptly scribbled one more name on the list:

_Severus Ewan Snape_

Severus paused here and examined his name carefully. It may have been the last name on the parchment, but it was far from the last name in his mind. As far as he was concerned, his name belonged there, amongst the vilest and most dangerous of all the Dark Lord's servants. If he was going to damn his own family, he was going to damn himself. Severus had made mistakes in his days – unforgivable ones at that – but let it not be said that he wasn't at least willing to own up to them, to take his place among those whom he damned.

But there was more Severus to reveal. There were the places – the meeting spots he'd seen or heard about. The old Riddle house. The castle the Malfoys provided. The Forbidden Forest. And then there were the secrets – so many to enumerate. How the Dark Lord used Legilimency to learn the secrets of his followers, how he used the Imperious Curse to control the reluctant, and the ultimate goals he had for ousting Dumbledore and expelling the Ministry.

Severus had written several feet of the few details he'd been privy to during his years in the Dark Lord's service. He didn't stop until his hand quaked with cramps from the writing and the candles on the desk were melted down into nothing more than stubs. With an odd sense of satisfaction, he reviewed the contents of his list. By his own hand, he'd damned the Dark Lord and numerous Death Eaters.

More importantly, though, by his own hand and of his own free will, Severus Snape had damned himself.


	18. The Art of Espionage

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 17: The (Subtle Science and Exact) Art of Espionage

* * *

"We cannot have Voldemort finding your weaknesses and exploiting them to hurt you further," Dumbledore told him, peering seriously over the rims of his half-moon glasses. "Nor, of course, can we risk that he may be able to find a memory or secret that could destroy the Order."

The sallow-skinned young man nodded in agreement as the headmaster stared intently at him. On the desk between them was the parchment Severus had presented him with only moments before, the hastily scribbled list of the damned few whom he had been able to name in connection with the Dark Lord. Dumbledore had seemed rather surprised when Severus had given the list to him. Perhaps, he mused, the headmaster had half-expected him to revoke his offer to spy; perhaps Severus had surprised even himself with taking this first step into the realm of traitorousness. One thing, though, was perfectly apparent now: with that list in Dumbledore's hands, there was no turning back for Severus Snape.

"I must insist, therefore, that we take some precautionary measures before permitting you to return to the presence of the Death Eaters," the headmaster continued.

"And what precautionary measures are those?" Severus asked.

Dumbledore's answer was so obvious it had almost pained Severus to think that he had not conceived of it first, on his own. "Occlumency, naturally," the headmaster explained. "It will prove integral to your survival as a spy. It is a complex and nearly forgotten branch of magic, one that takes only the most serious of minds to master. However, we are fortunate that, due to some rather unpleasant events in your adolescence, you are already familiar with its basic tenets."

A slight flush rose in Severus' cheeks at Dumbledore's allusion to his final year at Hogwarts and the afternoon he had wielded a series of near-lethal Bruising Hexes against James Potter. He had resented the headmaster for leaving him the Occlumency text that afternoon to help him learn to contain his emotions, and as a result the volume had spent far more time collecting dust on his bookshelf than Dumbledore may have hoped. Nonetheless, Severus had grudgingly admitted the usefulness of such skills, and curiosity had drawn him to the book sporadically over the years – at times like the murder of Regulus Black, for instance, and the days following Evan Rosier's drowning. Even his dabbling in Occlumency had proven indispensable then, as it undoubtedly would now.

"Yes, yes, I suppose I am," Severus said slowly. He wasn't certain whether or not the headmaster had meant his words as a question, but given how precarious matters were, he thought it perhaps best to be as direct and honest as possible; his life, such as it was, depended on it.

Now it was Dumbledore's turn to nod. "Excellent," he replied, although his tone was pensive and his eyes all the more serious. "Shall we test your skills then?"

In the past, Severus had had his suspicions that the headmaster had been probing his mind, using Legilimency to test the boundaries of his emotions, but those experiences had not been able to prepare him for the deluge of feelings and flashes of memory coursing through him at the headmaster's intrusion into his mind. He saw his father bullying his mother the night they fled to Tuscany… then there was the look of Circe Snape's face as she cried out to him in those final moments before she was taken away to Azkaban… and James – James bloody Potter – hexing him during his Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T., driving him to the brink of committing himself to the Dark Lord… the same Dark Lord who was now muttering a grim _Morsmordre_ and pressing his wand to Severus' left forearm…

But it was Jane that finally broke him. Severus saw her so clearly that he could have sworn she was there beside him. He was tugging on her curls at one of Madeleine Swizzle's holiday parties when they were five… then she was dabbing his broken, bloodied lip with wound healing potion after a run-in with Darius… there was the hurt in her eyes as he snarled at her, telling her that he didn't want their baby… and suddenly she was smiling as he, curious, brought his hands to the swell in her womb, feeling the baby kick within. It was because of Jane that Severus was here – because he had seen her ripped from life in the most cruel and violent of fashions, because she would never be the mother to that baby she had loved so well, because a piece of him would always feel responsible for the events that lead to her murder. And so Severus rebelled, the flickers of Jane inciting him.

He supposed in retrospect that he must have reached for the wand buried within his robes, although he knew he didn't use it. Instead, Severus used his mind, repelling the headmaster's invasion with his will. He summoned his anger, his disillusionment, his pain, and used them to stopper the bottles of his vulnerabilities. Locking his emotions behind such tight wards was a defense mechanism he'd practised out of necessity as a child, and so it came naturally to him now to do the same. Indeed, by the time Severus opened his eyes again, he saw Dumbledore, slightly out of breath and fingers clutching the edge of his desk, before him. He had been successful.

"Well done, Mr. Snape," the headmaster said, straightening his robes. "Much better than I expected, and I expected great things."

Had circumstances been slightly less dire, Severus was certain that Dumbledore's compliment would have brought a spark of warmth to his heart. Unlike James Potter, Severus mused darkly, he had never openly received praise from the headmaster over the years, only lectures and punishments, as kindly given and well-intentioned as they may have been.

"We must, however, refine your technique," Dumbledore continued. "You repel me with your rage. If you confront hatred with hatred, you will only ultimately succeed in making yourself more vulnerable to the Dark Lord. He will feed on your anger and draw you in once again."

"Then how do I defend myself, Headmaster?" Severus asked, a scowl forming at the corners of his mouth.

"You must be more subtle. Defend yourself by clearing your mind. What is needed is not anger but the absence of anger – the absence of all emotion. Now, let's try again, shall we? And concentrate," Dumbledore urged. "Clear your mind."

Closing his eyes, Severus tried to drain the memories from his mind. Distancing himself from the pain which had motivated him for so long was easier said than done, though, and within moments of Dumbledore's intrusion, he felt himself weakening. Before he could censor himself, the flashes of feeling tumbled forth once again. This time it was Darius turning the Bruising Curse on him rather than on Zoe… and Sirius grinding his face in the dirt while he called him Snivellus… followed by Evan Rosier boasting about having shagged Florence Feather. Then Jane resurfaced. She was standing on tip-toe to kiss him in the stacks… next was her voice as she recited her vows to him at their hand fasting… and there was the atypical pallor in her cheeks and the way she struggled to recognise him as he held her dying body in his arms.

In an instant, Severus' fury returned, and it did not subside until the headmaster was once again left expelled and gasping for breath. Collapsing back in his chair, the younger wizard raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore's. He had expected to find the headmaster scowling reproachfully at him for his apparent lack of effort in resorting to his anger to defend himself, and an apology was already forming on his lips.

"I'm sorry, Headmaster," Severus faltered.

Dumbledore, however, wore a kind face, one filled with sympathy and warmth. He nodded patiently, his eyes twinkling sadly. "Perhaps it is too soon," he said quietly. "Jane is too recent and significant a wound, perhaps…"

Severus' brow creased with yet more determination at the mention of his wife's name. He was doing this because of her, for her. He would not allow Dumbledore to give up on him; he had to persevere. For Jane. "No," he protested quickly. "I'll try harder, Headmaster. I _must_ do this."

A smile played at the corners of the headmaster's lips. He'd known Severus long enough to expect this response from him, to anticipate the renewed fervor with which he would subsequently pursue his goals. Severus had, after all, always been very determined – determined almost to a fault. Thus, with a slight nod of his head, Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Let's try again now, then, shall we?" he said.

* * *

Even years later, Severus was never completely certain why the Dark Lord had done it – whether it was pity related to Jane's death or simply the fact that his potions stores had not run low enough for him to require the hook-nosed young wizard's services. Either way, weeks had passed before Severus once again felt a familiar throbbing in his left forearm, summoning him to the presence of his one-time master, now his covert enemy.

Dumbledore had been worried. He'd stroked his chin through his silvery beard and peered over the rims of his glasses with his usual intensity when Severus told him that his Mark was burning again.

"I must caution you, Severus, that I have been gentle with you in regards to Legilimency, but I doubt Voldemort will be," Dumbledore had warned. "If he comes to question your motives, he will probe your mind without the care that I have taken with you. He will be ruthless, and I fear that you may not yet be ready to use Occlumency to defend yourself from such an attack. As such, you must take great care not to provoke him into suspecting the change in your loyalties."

Severus paled. "I understand," he assured the headmaster, although his voice was somewhat hoarse with the horror of it. "You mean that I must still fulfill my Death Eater duties. You mean for me to continue to kill and to kiss the Dark Lord's feet, to wallow in servitude and pretend that the beasts who murdered my wife are my brethren."

"It is the only way, Severus," Dumbledore replied softly, sympathetically. He did not relish the knowledge that the hook-nosed young man before him was forced to continue to do the Dark Lord's bidding any more than he did, but it was inevitable. Severus' life and any success they may have in foiling the Death Eaters depended on it.

There were hurried meetings with the headmaster to follow, anxious weekly exchanges of Occlumency lessons and reports on the Dark Lord. With the Ministry monitoring floos and owls intercepted on a near-daily basis by Death Eaters, Severus had no choice but to meet Dumbledore in places unlikely to be visited by wizards – in Muggle shops and pubs, on the outskirts of the Dark Forest. Severus told the headmaster about everything he had discerned from lingering in corridors and trying to gather even the subtlest of meanings from each word uttered by the Dark Lord and the likes of the Malfoys and Lestranges and even Darius Snape.

Indeed, Severus listened to them all. He listened for hints of who among them may have killed Jane and for anything that may be of help to the Order. One week, it was spies in the Ministry; then it was the brewing of more poisons, who Severus suspected would be using them, and who he thought would be dying by them. For months now, there were increased murmurings about the Dark Lord planning an offensive. The details were often hazy, but something huge and horrible was on the horizon, of that much Severus was certain.

As to be expected, there had been moments when Severus wondered if the Dark Lord suspected him. There were times when, as he laboured over his mortar and pestle, grinding scarab beetles or making a pulp of hellebore, that the Dark Lord would pause and watch him with added interest. Severus would raise his gaze to his master then, his Occlumens' eyes fathomless, blank, hollow tunnels, devoid of emotion.

"My Lord?" he would question.

The Dark Lord would hesitate a moment, perhaps surveying the hook-nosed young man with the aid of Legilimency. Then, satisfied, his stare would turn less piercing, less dangerous. "Your work pleases me, Snape," he would reply, although his tone was far from kind. "Perhaps I have been underutilizing your talents."

The promise of taking a more prominent role amongst the Death Eaters sickened Severus. Nonetheless, he would feign pleasure at the Dark Lord's recognition of his abilities. "My Lord is generous with his praise," he would say. Then he would watch, never retreating from the protection of Occlumency, as the Dark Lord would turn and proceed down the corridor.

It was always the same exchange – or a similar one, at least – and over time, it became clear that if the Dark Lord did doubt Severus, he was uncertain enough not to take action. In this way, Severus Snape slowly came to master the subtle science and exact art that was espionage.

* * *

Just because Severus had become increasingly adept at Occlumency did not mean that he was invincible to hardship. There were times when, for instance, Occlumency could do nothing to save him. When such a moment arrived, Severus found himself not at the mercy of the Dark Lord or even at that of another Death Eater; he found himself at the mercy of Ministry law instead.

In retrospect, Severus understood how incriminating it looked, him present at the scene of the crime, at the murder of his childhood nemesis' parents. However, as Severus would later explain to Dumbledore, he hadn't known about the raid in advance. Despite the promises of the Dark Lord, he had not risen far enough in the ranks of the Death Eaters to have access to such classified information. If he had known, he would not have hesitated to tell the headmaster despite his personal feelings. After all, Severus Snape may have been many things dark and vile and cruel, but he was no hypocrite; he may have resented the fact that he owed James Potter a life debt, but he respected such an obligation nonetheless. Slaughtering Potter's parents – because that was, in truth, what it ultimately was – that night was unthinkable.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Hogsmeade had been resplendent that night, as it usually was when the Halloween season approached. There were decorations of live bats, black and orange streamers in windows, and jack-o-lanterns almost as large as the houses themselves were. However, there was no time to admire such decorations. Due to the sensitive nature of their task, they'd had to be particularly quick and stealthy as they'd crept through the sleeping village, towards the stone cottage on the outskirts. Lucius Malfoy had been particularly irritable that night. When Richard Nott had asked who they were after this time, he'd hissed at him to shut up and curtly reminded him that it would be wise not to question the will or workings of the Dark Lord.

"But why are we here?" Nott had foolishly persisted. "What are we after?"

"Let _me_ worry about such details," Malfoy had snapped. Like most other members of his family, he was unaccustomed to being second-guessed and clearly did not appreciate Nott's impertinence. "They don't concern you, anyhow. All you need to do is keep quiet and obey my instruction."

Unlike Nott, Severus was slightly more subtle and far more observant. He hadn't needed to inquire after the identities of their victims; the photographs on the fireplace mantle told him precisely who they were. As Malfoy and Nott headed upstairs, Severus paused, drawn by the familiar smiling faces and waving hands in the pictures. James Potter, age 11, standing on Platform 9 ¾ just as Severus remembered him: Snitch in hand and a cocky smile on his face. A man stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder. It was the same man Severus had seen ruffling James' hair; it was his father. Next to that was another photograph: a younger version of the elder Potter, holding hands with a slender woman with a kind smile – the woman who would become James' mother. The mantle was laden with similar images. James. James. Mr. and Mrs. Potter and James. Lily and James. Lily, James, and a dark-hair infant. More Mr. and Mrs. Potter.

Severus felt as though he had just jerked his eyes open from a terrible nightmare. He stood there, dumbfounded, feet frozen in horror to the carpet as it occurred to him that he was standing in the home of James' parents – George and Elizabeth Potter, as they were known in their circle of friends. However, not only was Severus in their home, but the screams and pleas for mercy emanating from upstairs, where Malfoy had already begun his interrogations, were theirs.

"Why?! Why are you doing this?" Elizabeth Potter was shrieking.

Her question was followed by a cry of pain and her husband's protests, but still, Malfoy provided no explanation as to why they were there. Instead, he and Nott shared cruel laughter at the expense of their victims, a laughter which doubled as, following the muttering of another incantation, George Potter presently joined in his wife's wails of agony. However Malfoy and Nott were tormenting the Potters, it sounded most certainly lethal.

When it arrived, the end was abrupt. Severus had just reached the stop of the stairs when everything – the screaming, the laughter, the hexing – came to sudden stop. In their stead, a stream of profanity and the scuffing of the floor as heavy boots hurried across it followed.

"Bollocks!" he heard Malfoy hissing. "Squealing like a bloody pig, waking up the whole damned village!"

Brow furrowed in confusion, Severus burst into the bedroom to his left in time to encounter a panicked Nott and Malfoy trying to claw their way past him.

"They're coming, Snape, we have to go!" Nott shouted at him as he started down the nearby stairs.

Peering around the dimly lit room, Severus glanced out the window. It was there that he saw the cause of their hasty departure. In the distance, there were lanterns and the illuminated tips of wands bobbing through the darkness, winding down the street, making their way purposefully towards the cottage. Indeed, someone _was_ coming – several people were coming, actually.

"It'll be Aurors, Snape, now come on!" Nott called back over his shoulder. "Someone must've heard us!"

But Severus, transfixed, didn't budge. At his feet, beside the very bed where they had been resting peacefully less than a mere half hour ago, he saw the bodies. The candlelight cast a ghostly glow on the crumpled corpse of Elizabeth Potter as he crouched beside her. Hair tangled and nightgown torn, she was lying, face down on the ground, blood oozing from her mouth, forming a puddle on the carpet beneath her. Beside her was George Potter's lifeless form, a form that so greatly resembled an older version of James Potter that Severus had to consciously remind himself that, as much as he may have once rejoiced at the prospect of it being his, the body didn't actually belong to his childhood adversary.

There was more than one way to kill a wizard. While a simple Killing Curse might have sufficed, it was apparently too traditional a method for the likes of Lucius Malfoy and Richard Nott. By the bruises on Elizabeth Potter's bare legs and the gush of blood from both the Potters' mouths, Severus could guess what their fates had been. He had, after all, seen it done before to countless Muggles and blood traitors. In the brief period of time that had elapsed, Malfoy had tortured the Potters, had slowly burst their internal organs one by one with a mere flick of his aristocratic wrist. He'd started with the liver, perhaps, or a kidney. Next may have been a lung – maybe he eventually burst both. Even if Malfoy had stopped here, the Potters would have suffocated or bled to death in time. But he hadn't stopped here; he couldn't have stopped here. Malfoy must have burst their hearts in those last desperate moments when Nott spotted the crowd approaching. It was the only way to cause instant death and would have been the final fatal blow to bring about the Potters' sudden silence.

The pain the Potters must have experienced was too ghastly to imagine, and the perverseness of the one capable of inflicting such a death was too profound to comprehend. Severus was still reeling from it as he reached up towards the bed and pulled a sheet from it. He had only just managed to finish covering the Potters' bodies with the linen when a great commotion could be heard entering the cottage downstairs. Bellowing and stomping and raging filled the house.

"Check upstairs; maybe they're still here!" a man was shouting.

"They can't have gotten far – even if they managed to escape!" another was saying.

Doors were slamming; boots were pounding on the stairs. There were many of them – five or six burly, armed wizards, by the sounds of it, each one of them hunting down the intruders responsible for the commotion at the Potter cottage. They were sent by the Ministry, no doubt. Maybe, as Nott had predicted, there were even Aurors among them. They moved swiftly through the house, and the moments passed by so quickly that Severus was only faintly aware of consciously thinking that he was caught at last, that this was the end of him, that this was prison… or worse.

In the next instant, the Potters' bedroom door swung open, banging unceremoniously against the wall.

"Turn around with your hands up where I can see them," a surly voice commanded behind him.

Severus fell still at once, his heart jolting to a sudden stop. The hook-nosed young man didn't have to stretch his imagination to understand how dire his situation was: Malfoy and Nott must have Apparated back to London by now, and he'd been found alone, standing over two corpses – corpses of a witch and a wizard from the bloodline that he openly loathed the most in all the wizarding world, no less. He could not have imagined a more damning set of circumstances for himself to be found in if he tried.

Slowly, Severus complied with the demands of the wizard behind him. Dropping his wand, he turned to face his captor, but even before he lifted his eyes to see who it was who had caught him, a part of him already knew he'd find himself face-to-face with the grizzled countenance, mangled nose, and eerie eye of the Auror who had recently warned him that Dumbledore couldn't protect him from the Ministry forever.

"I swore to you that before this war was over, I'd see you in Azkaban, Mr. Snape," Alastor Moody growled. "And today seems to be that day."

* * *

There had been no point trying to resist Moody as he arrested him. After all, Severus knew only too well what happened to reluctant Death Eaters when they were cornered by the Ministry. Evan Rosier, for instance, had died trying to escape, and rumour had it that trials were no longer guaranteed to presumed servants of the Dark Lord; the fact that Igor Karkaroff was still awaiting to testify on his own behalf before the Wizengamot was testament of this fact.

It was straight to Azkaban for Severus; no stopping at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to await arraignment or even a trial. The prison loomed before him, a towering fortress of stone and screams and sorrow. For clarity's sake, Moody had reiterated the charges as he turned him over to the prison warden: thirteen counts of brewing and distributing illegal toxic substances, accomplice to the murder of Regulus Black, aiding the fugitive Evan Rosier, and the murder of George and Elizabeth Potter. The warden, a short wizard who perpetually looked as though he had just tasted a lemon, had grinned cruelly as he looked from Moody to Severus.

"More Death Eater filth, eh?" he sneered, his lips curling over two rows of cracked and discoloured teeth. "You ain't ever seeing the light of day again."

Winding through the narrow, drafty corridors of the prison, Severus kept his eyes forward, cast down to the dusty, dirty ground. Around him, the scenes were too bleak. The walls were lined with cells, their inhabitants moaning, weeping, screaming. Some were curled in fetal positions or sat rocking back and forth maniacally on the flimsy mattresses that served as their beds; others reached out through the bars, so desperate for human contact that they clawed at his robes. The warden spewed profanity at them and beat their emerging hands with the baton that swayed from a belt around his waist, only adding to the noise and general confusion of the prison. Considering the chaos around them, Severus found it rather remarkable that the cries of one prisoner in particular drew his attention.

"Severus?!" cried a familiar woman's voice to his right.

Startled at the mention of his name, Severus jerked his head to see who it was who had called him. His heart stopped beating in his chest when his eyes locked with those of the speaker.

It was his mother.

Severus hadn't seen Circe Lestrange Snape since he was seven years old and she had been sentenced to Azkaban for kidnapping him, but he was sure it was her. As to be expected, fourteen years in Azkaban had been cruel to her. Her hair was no longer soft and shiny but lank and dull; her eyes no longer glistened but were lifeless, and the pretty pink hue in her cheeks had faded to an ashen grey. She looked especially frail in the rags of her Azkaban prison clothes, but the shell of the woman she had once been was unmistakable.

"Mum!" Severus choked in astonishment, pausing to look at her in disbelief.

There was pain and confusion in Circe's eyes as she looked upon the son she would not have recognised if not for his overwhelming physical resemblance to his father. "Severus," she whispered desperately, reaching her hands through the iron bars that separated them to brush his shoulder affectionately, "oh, love, what you have done?!"

Severus faltered, instantly ashamed of himself under his mother's gaze. How could he possibly explain to her everything that he had become and done that lead to this moment? The years had been too painful, and there was too much to tell – everything from Darius to James Potter to the Dark Lord to Jane. Circe had tried so hard to prevent him from such a fate, and she paid the price for her efforts to this day, but Severus had failed her, had made a mockery of sacrifice, and he hated himself for it.

There was no time for Severus to give his mother any sort of reply, however, as he was promptly prodded by the warden to keep moving. He felt Circe's gaze following him, though, felt her eyes boring in him with horror and disappointment and pity and love as he walked away. At once, he felt like the awkward child he had been, eager to please her and quick to feel guilt when she scolded him for sneaking into his father's library or experimenting with potions on the house elf. His mother had seen him; she _knew_ he was in Azkaban, and he doubted it would take her long to figure out why he was here.

Severus hung his head in self-loathing.


	19. A Very Great Man

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 18: A Very Great Man

* * *

Sleep was something no one ever really did in Azkaban. They closed their eyes, but it was more of a concentrated effort to block out the memories, those horrible moments in life that the dementor guards forced them to relive over and over and over again. For Severus it was witnessing Darius bully his mother; it was being dangled midair by James Potter in front of the school after their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.; it was watching the Death Eaters hovering over Jane. The images melted together until they were all simultaneously plaguing him. Circe Snape's pleas became Potter's taunting, became the surprised gasp of Jane's last breath, became Severus' own tormented howling as he tried to drown them out. Eventually, he lost track of the number of times he brought his hands to ears in desperate attempt to silence them all.

He wasn't aware at what point the daylight started to creep across the dusty floor of his lonely cell. He was only faintly cognizant of the fact that the spiders with whom he shared his already cramped quarters were starting to trail their way across his robes with complete disregard for his presence. And when Severus raised his drooping head to find Albus Dumbledore standing opposite him outside the iron bars of his cell, he was quite nearly convinced he was hallucinating.

"Yes, that's him," Dumbledore was saying with a nod to the warden by his side – the same warden who had locked him away last night. There was a piece of parchment in his hand, which he handed to the warden then for his inspection. "The paperwork is all in order. You'll see the signature of Mr. Crouch right at the bottom."

The warden looked skeptical. He read the parchment slowly, so slowly that Severus wondered if he could actually read it at all and was merely pretending. Moments later, though, the warden's brows met in an irritated wrinkle as he rolled the paper into a tight scroll and tucked it into the confines of his robes. When his hand emerged once more, there was ring of old fashioned keys in his hand.

"On your feet," the warden growled at Severus as he rifled through the long silver stems in search of the proper one.

From where he sat on the floor, Severus hesitated a moment. His eyes shifted curiously from the warden to Dumbledore to the door of his cell, which, with the clank of metal on metal, was now swinging open before him. It seemed inconceivable that, after Moody's determination last night and how he had been found, the sole person at the scene of a brutal murder, he would be allowed to walk free so easily, and yet the implication of the paper, the open door, and Dumbledore's presence was clear.

"Never seen anyone who actually _wanted_ to stay here," the warden snarled, noting Severus' confusion with cruel amusement. He swung back his foot then and, before the latter had time to recoil, brought it forward again to kick him mercilessly in the stomach. "Are you deaf, lad?! I said _up!_" he hissed.

Severus gasped for breath, and his face was contorted with pain. He did not, however, cry out. A childhood of enduring Darius Snape's punishments had hardened him too much for that. Just as he doubled over, though, he saw Dumbledore step swiftly between him and the warden.

"There will be no need for physical violence," the headmaster intervened calmly. "This man is, after all, no longer your prisoner."

A heavy flush rose in the warden's cheeks, and he grumbled something incoherent under his breath. As he led Severus and Dumbledore back through the winding, narrow corridors of the prison, he remained silent and bitter. It was an awkward and hasty exit from the prison, and Severus still did not completely understand what was happening. However, when he looked to the headmaster inquisitively, the older wizard seemed to avoid eye contact and offered no explanation. Only when Severus opened his mouth to speak – to ask what had happened to allow for his release – did Dumbledore's eyes register a gentle warning.

"Hush, my boy," he whispered. "I'll explain later."

The explanation, when it was provided, astounded Severus. It had taken Dumbledore all night, but he had done it; he had convinced Bartemius Crouch to free Azkaban's most recent prisoner. Alastor Moody had been honourable enough to tell the headmaster what had happened, how he had found the young man standing over the bodies, trembling and silent, how Severus hadn't even protested or defended himself, just offered his wrists up to be bound.

"It's possible he hadn't acted alone," Moody admitted gruffly, "but the point is, Albus, that your trust in Snape was misplaced."

Dumbledore had, of course, known something about Severus that Moody didn't, and that was simply the fact that Severus owed James Potter a life debt. Severus was nothing if not proud, and he had always resented being indebted to James. He would have done anything to discharge himself of that debt, Dumbledore knew, including repaying the favour if the opportunity presented itself. The idea that Severus could have killed a member of the Potter family when he was so bound to protect the lot of them was inconceivable. Regardless of how things may have appeared at the scene, the headmaster was confident n Severus' innocence.

Fast action had been required. Dumbledore had used his influence with the Wizengamot to arrange an emergency summit in the early morning hours. He'd presented his testimony on Severus' behalf, explained about Jane and the life debt. He'd shown them evidence of the information Severus had passed on to the Order: his list of Death Eaters, which had already led to several interrogations, and how his suspicions that Voldemort was after the Meadows family had allowed them to at least save the children.

"You see, if the Order or the Ministry is to continue to have any success against Voldemort –" there was a collective shudder among those assembled at the mention of the Dark wizard's name – "it is necessary for you to release Mr. Snape," Dumbledore had explained. "He is indispensable in our network."

As to be expected, few had been willing to take a risk on a wizard who bore the Dark Mark and who, despite claims of his shifted loyalties, still fraternized with Death Eaters on a regular basis. Dumbledore understood their concerns. These were dangerous times; trusting strange witches and wizards was not considered prudent. It was only when the headmaster offered his own personal assurances that real progress in convincing the Wizengamot was achieved.

"Mr. Snape is an extraordinary young man – misunderstood but extraordinary," he had told them, "not to mention a wizard with much potential – potential which has been exploited. He has risked his life every day to compensate for his mistakes. I think we can all agree that his self-inflicted punishment is far more productive to our cause than isolating him in a cell in Azkaban ever could be."

Still, Crouch had been skeptical. "Do you realise what you're doing, Albus, defending a Death Eater – an accused murderer?" he'd blurted. "Are you willing to risk your reputation on Snape?"

Unshaken, Dumbledore had merely nodded confidently. "Not only would I risk my reputation, but I would confidently place my life in Mr. Snape's hands," he replied. "I assure that if you release Severus Snape to my custody, I will take personal responsibility for his actions."

A series of shocked murmurs reverberated throughout the courtroom at the notion that someone as venerable as Dumbledore would be willing to gamble so much on a presumed murderer. In the end, it had perhaps been this that ultimately convinced the Wizengamot to pardon Severus. Moments later, either because he wanted to prove the great Albus Dumbledore fallible or because he genuinely wanted to believe that there was still hope for defeating the Death Eaters – even if it meant trusting one of them, Crouch had signed the release papers. Severus Snape was a free man.

Listening to the headmaster relay the story of his release now, Severus had been overwhelmed. He'd leaned forward in his chair in Dumbledore's office, eyes wide and stunned. "You… you trust me enough to have done this for me?" he gasped.

Dumbledore's eyes had only twinkled in affirmation.

"But I… I have never done anything to deserve your trust," Severus reminded him.

"Ah, Severus, you are wrong," Dumbledore said softly. "You _have_ proven that I can trust you – you never told anyone that Remus Lupin is a werewolf, remember?"

Severus' mouth fell open in surprise a moment. Then, finding himself unable to dispute the fact presented to him, he closed it again. It was true: not even Jane had ever known the exact details of the events that night during his sixth year at Hogwarts. While it hadn't been his plan to prove himself a man of his word by keeping Lupin's secret, he supposed that the headmaster was right nonetheless.

"The real question, though, Severus, is not if or even why I trust you," Dumbledore continued, raising his eyebrows curiously, "but rather why Voldemort targeted the Potters last night."

* * *

Severus loathed dressing like a Muggle. For one thing, trousers made his legs itch, and he had never in his life come across a device more sadistic than a tie. Then there was the added issue regarding the fact that these clothes brought back memories of his youth, of running away to Italy with his mother and the disasters that both provoked and resulted from this event. However, some things were more important than Severus' lacking comfort and childhood trauma. Consequentially, he found himself standing in Fortnum and Mason that night, clad in a slightly mismatched suit, pretending to be examining the selection of teas.

"Are you sure you don't need help finding anything, sir?" a salesgirl with a feathery hair cut asked him for the third time.

With a scowl, Severus reached for a box of Darjeeling and, with exaggerated movements, put it in his already-brimming basket. "I'm fine," he seethed through clenched teeth. He turned away quickly, leaving the salesgirl standing speechless and shocked behind him.

The truth was, contrary to what he had told the salesgirl, matters weren't "fine." Mere hours after leaving Dumbledore's office that morning, Severus had stumbled upon the answer to the headmaster's question, to why the Dark Lord had targeted the Potters the previous night. Now, finding the headmaster to tell him was essential. Emerging from the teas, Severus hesitated when he saw him: Dumbledore was standing by the chocolates, his snowy beard trailing down the front of a black tee shirt, upon which was printed the slogan "no future"; his pants, also black, were punctuated with strategically placed tears and oversized safety pins, and across his back was a leather jacket marked with an array of Muggle symbols Severus did not even want to begin to image the meaning of. Severus rolled his eyes with exasperation. The headmaster had always donned inventive disguises during each of their meetings – sometimes Severus even suspected he did it just to annoy him. This, however, was simply ridiculous.

"You do realise that you would have been less conspicuous if you'd shown up in your robes, don't you?" Severus said irritably under his breath as he stepped up beside the headmaster. He could not help but notice the way the salespeople had beheld Dumbledore oddly.

The headmaster merely feigned innocence. "Have you tried their toffees, Severus?" he asked dismissively. "I think you would enjoy them."

Heaving an frustrated sigh, Severus followed the headmaster's lead and busied himself with selecting toffees now. "After I left the school this afternoon, the Dark Lord summoned me," he whispered surreptitiously. "When I arrived, I overheard him talking to Lucius Malfoy about the Potters."

The headmaster nodded, bidding Severus to continue as he shifted his interest to a rather large box of sherbet lemons.

"It seems as though he wasn't after George and Elizabeth Potter at all; they merely got in the way," Severus explained urgently. "It's James and Lily he wants. He thought they would be there last night."

Dumbledore paused, and when he turned to look up at Severus, his face was pale and his eyes were eager. "James and Lily Potter?" he repeated, the alarm apparent in his voice. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Severus replied. His response was a little louder and rather more indignant than he had intended, and he cast a nervous glance over his shoulder before continuing in a lowered voice. "I heard Malfoy say it himself. Something about a prophecy – I don't know the exact details. The point is, their lives are in danger. You have to hide them as quickly as possible."

The headmaster abandoned the sherbet lemons at once. There was a distant, worried look in his eyes, and he brought his slim fingers to massage his bearded chin pensively. "It is as I feared, then," he murmured.

Severus' brow wrinkled. "As you feared? You mean, you _know_?"

Dumbledore nodded sadly, and Severus followed him as they slowly began to walk around the store. "One hopes to be wrong about such things, of course, but I have my suspicions, yes," he replied solemnly. "You see, Severus, some time ago, a prophecy was made predicting that a child would be born, a child who would come to be marked by Voldemort and eventually become his magical rival. According to the prophecy, this child is our only real hope for ever ensuring Voldemort's fall; this child alone has the power to defeat him." The headmaster paused and looked meaningfully at Severus.

"So? How does this lead us to the Potters? There must be hundreds of magical children born in Britain every year – thousands across the world," the younger wizard pointed out. "My own child – " He stopped awkwardly there, his voice crackling at the thought of the death of his unborn daughter. "My own child might have been this coveted deliverer had circumstances been different," he finished softly. "The Dark Lord cannot just go about murdering infants at random. The sheer numbers make it impractical, if nothing else."

The headmaster's eyes widened over the rims of his spectacles. "You're correct, of course," he replied. "Voldemort's killings aren't random. By the stipulations of the prophecy – and I _do_ have it on good authority that he is aware of at least part of the prophecy – only two children are eligible to fulfill it. One of them is Frank and Alice Longbottom's son, Neville, and the other is—"

"—is Harry Potter, James' and Lily's son," Severus finished, deducing the outcome of the headmaster's explanation.

"Precisely," Dumbledore replied, rounding a corner and examining an array of some rather fine meats behind a glass case. "Considering that Voldemort is currently targeting the Potters, specifically James and Lily, it appears that he, too, is aware of young Harry's potential to bring about his downfall. Whether or not he knows about Neville Longbottom as well is something I can only guess at." He looked expectantly up at Severus, as if to ask him he had come across any mention of the Longbottoms amongst the Death Eaters.

"I have heard nothing remarkable about the Longbottoms," the younger wizard replied. "Only the usual: the Lestranges seem to have a particular loathing for them, and the Dark Lord remains determined to make Death Eaters of them. Nothing about a child, though."

Relief flickered across Dumbledore's face at this. "This, at least, is reassuring," he said. "However, between what happened last night and what you heard this afternoon, it is clear that we cannot take any risks."

Severus nodded and swallowed hard, trying to absorb the enormity of the information Dumbledore had just shared with him. So much seemed unanswered: How had the Dark Lord found out about the prophecy? What, exactly, were the stipulations regarding the child? What could be done to possibly save a defenseless child from a wizard as powerful as the Dark Lord? The questions swam about in his mind, but there was no time to ask them all. Regardless, it was clear that matters were far more dire than Severus had ever suspected they were. Not only were innocent lives on the line, but the future of the only individual capable of bringing an end to the cycle of the Dark Lord's destruction was at stake; the fate of the wizarding community seemed to rely on the survival of a mere toddler.

Until just moments ago, the hook-nosed young man had flattered himself that it might be him who would come to play an integral role in defeating the Death Eaters. After Jane's death, he would have settled for nothing less. Now Severus cringed at the thought that a Potter should be fated for the task that had been his sole motivation for the past few months. It had been years since he had seen James Potter, and yet his legacy still haunted him. However, Severus was determined. Childhood enmity mattered little when trying to match the power of the Dark Lord, and if protecting the Potter child was the only way to ensure the Death Eaters' defeat, then Severus would do all he was able to make certain that the child grew to fulfill his destiny.

"What will we do, then?" Severus asked determinedly.

The headmaster was a silent a moment, his stare so concentrated that the sales associate standing behind the meat case mistook it for an interest in some admittedly first-rate cuts of lamb. Dumbledore brushed him away with a wave of hand. "Fidelius," he said at last.

In retrospect, Severus supposed the Fidelius Charm must have been the most obvious method by which they could conceal the Potters. After all, it alone would ensure that they were safe from the Dark Lord forever – barring, of course, that the individual who concealed the secret of their whereabouts kept silent. The fact remained, though, that as ideal a solution as Fidelius appeared to be, it was an immensely complex spell to perform, and time to prepare for it was not something they had much of.

"Who can possibly perform it?" Severus asked. "We don't have time for errors. The Potters must be hidden now – tonight, if possible."

It went without saying that the headmaster agreed. "And they will be, Severus," he assured him. "I shall consult with Filius Flitwick; he may be able to help."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime," Dumbledore replied solemnly, "we shall all have to be on high alert. Voldemort is clearly determined. He has too much at stake not to try to strike again soon."

* * *

Let there be no mistake about it: this was a time of war. There were the blasts from wands and the eerie, arrogant glow of the Dark Mark against the black of the night sky. There was the shouting of the masked and hooded Death Eaters as they advanced through the streets and the screams of anyone who stood against them or in their way. The alleys were a sea of death, Muggle and wizard corpses strewn about amongst the toppled telephone boxes and streetlights. Somewhere in the distance, a child was curled in a ball, weeping; somewhere in the distance, a woman was watching her husband be killed, and somewhere in the distance, the Aurors were struggling to contain the uprising.

The scene was something Severus had grown accustomed to witnessing on a regular basis as the Dark Lord made increasingly bolder attempts to seize power. Tonight, however, was different. It wasn't merely the fact that they were engaged in an unprecedented attack on the Ministry of Magic; there was that gnawing, haunting feeling that reverberated through his bones, speaking softly to him, heightening his senses and warning him that something yet bleaker was on the horizon. It was a feeling that haunted him as he and Rodolphus Lestrange sidled along the dreary, graffiti-scarred street, advancing on the broken phone booth entrance to the Ministry.

"This is mad," Severus murmured as they ducked behind a felled tree for shelter from the barrage of hexes slicing through the air.

"What is?" Rodolphus asked, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

"This – taking over the Ministry," the hook-nosed wizard hissed. He narrowly dodged a bolt of light from a misfired hex. "Even if we can get in, we'll never be able to secure the building; it's too large, and the Auror's will have the help of the Muggle police any moment."

Rodolphus was peering cautiously through a tangle of tree branches now, surveying their path up the street and the Death Eaters advancing onward ahead of them. "We're not meant to actually take the Ministry – just cause a distraction, make it look like we are," he explained distractedly.

Severus faltered. "A distraction?" he questioned.

Nodding, Rodolphus withdrew from the branches and leaned against the tree beside his cousin. "The Dark Lord just wants us to occupy the Aurors for him while he sees to a rather delicate task," he replied with dark amusement.

Delicate, Severus knew from experience, was tantamount to murderous, and to have attracted the wrath of the Dark Lord himself, the victim must have been an especially formidable adversary to his cause. There were precious few people who could have attracted such attention, and by the shadowy mania that clouded Rodolphus' eyes, it was clear that tonight's murder was one of the utmost importance.

"And what delicate task might that be?" Severus spat, concealing his alarm with carefully crafted bitterness.

A cruel smile parted Rodolphus' lips. "The Dark Lord's gone after the Potters," he replied, eyes glinting. "Their Secret Keeper turned traitor."

The news struck Severus hard like lightening or a Killing Curse, leaving him open-mouthed and wide-eyed. If the Secret Keeper had revealed the Potters' location, the Fidelius Charm would be broken, and there would be no stopping the Dark Lord from finding them, from killing them – from the killing the baby fated to vanquish him. Severus could not even fathom the consequences if the Dark Lord was not stopped; the prospects were too bleak to speak of. One thing was perfectly clear: the Potters had to be warned. They had to be saved.

Severus was still churning over the possibilities when Rodolphus rose to peer through the branches again. "All right, I'm going to risk it," he said, leaning back on his haunches in preparation to run. Then, before Severus could stop him, he was gone, slipping into the shadows of the street and towards the Ministry entrance.

Alone, Severus tore the hood and mask from his head and face with frustration. If any hope remained for preserving the Potters, it rested with him. He resisted the urge to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it, the irony that although he had tried for years to forget James Potter, their fates seemed permanently and irrevocably intertwined. Severus could die tonight trying to save the Potters, to discharge his life debt and do his duty in the fight against the Death Eaters. Even if he didn't, the Dark Lord would surely kill him for having tried. Next time, Severus thought, he would have to be more careful with who he allowed to save his life.

Not a moment could be spared, and as he emerged from the protection of the fallen tree, Severus was already formulating a plan. He did not know where the Potters were hidden or even how to contact someone who did, but Dumbledore would. The headmaster had wisdom and connections and resources the hook-nosed young man could never quite understand. Severus had to meet with him; upon this, the Potters' lives depended.

Years later, Severus would still remember the unusual chill in the air, the way the frostiness burned his lungs and his breath clouded in front of him. He'd remember the rhythmic thuds made by the soles of his boots as he raced down the pavement of the Muggle street and the way his heart was beating so hard he was certain it would thump a hole in his chest. He'd remember the flash of the rogue hex as it shattered the glass of the shabby shop window beside him and the way he'd stumbled back, bowled over the by force of the blow. Placing his hand to side, he'd felt the warm, sticky dampness of his own blood surging from him. It had occurred to Severus that he'd been injured, and he'd staggered back a pace or two as the searing pain of glass in flesh blinded him.

It would have been easy to have stayed there on the ground amidst the glass and blood and rubble, to have patiently waited for the haze of death to wash over him. Severus Snape, however, had never purposely taken the easy route in life, and although he was weak and could virtually feel the life draining out of him as the moments passed, he scrambled to his feet. Sheer desperation motivated him now, kept him moving and willed him to slip into the shadows and Apparate to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.

The Forest was exceptionally quiet tonight. It was almost as though all the Dark creatures within were lying in solemn anticipation of the evil in the air. Severus staggered from the edge of the Forest, hand to his abdomen, and looked towards the castle in the distance. Hogwarts was so close he could see the candles illuminating the windows of the Great Hall. The students would be celebrating with their Halloween feast now, warm and laughing with pumpkin juice and treacle tarts. They could scarcely imagine that outside, events were taking place which had the potential to change everything.

"Sev'rus? Sev'rus Snape, is that you?"

Raising his head, Severus saw Hagrid rushing towards him, crossing the grass from his hut to the edge of the Forest, where the hook-nosed wizard has since collapsed to his knees from the pain of his injury. The giant moved quicker and more swiftly than Severus had imagined his burly form capable of, and within moments, Hagrid was standing over him.

"Sev'rus! Yer hurt! Yer bleeding!" he gasped. "We gotta get yeh up to the castle so as Madam Pomfrey can take a look at yeh."

Even wounded, Severus was emphatic. "Dumbledore," he insisted. "I have to see Dumbledore!"

The next moments passed by in a blur. One moment, Hagrid was carrying him up to the castle. The gamekeeper's arms were wide and strong, and he cradled Severus against his broad chest like an infant. The next moment, Minerva McGonagall was rushing alongside them, guiding them through passages in the castle with hushed urgency. Then, he was in the headmaster's private chambers, stretched out on a chaise while a swarm of familiar faces – McGonagall's, Madam Pomfrey's, and Dumbledore's – hovered around him and fussed over him.

"It's Lily and James," Severus choked, clutching onto the headmaster's robes. He was shaking so badly he could hardly move his mouth to properly form the words. "They're in trouble."

An unprecedented panic rose in the face of the ever-placid headmaster. "The Death Eaters?"

"No, not them – Voldemort himself," Severus explained feverishly, although he did pause enough to shudder with the realisation that in his anxiety, he'd blurted the dreaded name of the Dark Lord despite himself. "He knows where they are – he got to their Secret Keeper – and he's gone after them… He's going to kill them – to kill the child."

Severus moaned in pain as Madam Pomfrey began to apply pressure to his wound to help slow the bleeding. He was, however, conscious of the way Dumbledore's brow was wrinkled with concern as he turned towards McGonagall.

"We'll need to act quickly. Alert the other members of the Order, Minerva," he told her. "I'll find out what I can and will be in touch shortly."

With a curt nod, the head of Gryffindor House turned to leave the room. McGonagall was pale, and although she was clearly trying to retain her famous composure, Severus noted that she was wringing her hands.

Dumbledore turned to Madam Promfrey then. "Poppy, can you tend to Mr. Snape on your own?" he asked. "I have much to do."

The nurse's robes and hands were already damp with Severus' blood, and her lips formed a firm, determined line when she opened them to speak. "Of course, Albus," she replied. "I will do everything I can."

The headmaster seemed satisfied, and the worry in his eyes subsided just enough to make room for a warm twinkle as he peered down at Severus over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. Then, placing a hand gently on the younger wizard's arm, Dumbledore spoke softly.

"Severus, I know it could not have been easy for you to come here tonight, for you risk your life to save James Potter considering your history together," he told him. "It takes a great man to do such thing – a very great man, indeed."


	20. The Potions Master

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 19: The Potions Master

* * *

Of course, despite Dumbledore's reassurances, Severus didn't feel like a very great man. In the days that followed, he had read various accounts of that night in _The Daily Prophet_ – in _The Evening Prophet_ – even in _The Quibbler_. He had listened to the headmaster and McGonagall and Hagrid as they relayed what had happened. In each telling, however the shades of it varied, certain events remained the same, forever unchangeable. It had been too late to save James and Lily; the cottage was destroyed; and in the end, the Dark Lord, despite being weakened, had managed to escape. It was a rather more bleak outcome than Severus had hoped for, and he wondered miserably if his efforts had done any good at all.

The child had been saved, though. Severus tried to comfort himself with that, at least. If Dumbledore hadn't sent Hagrid to Godric's Hollow when he did, Harry Potter, despite surviving the Dark Lord's curse, might have died in the wreck and flames of that cottage. The boy was hidden now, whisked off to Surrey to live with that Muggle sister of Lily's. Severus could have thought of a number of more practical and perhaps safer places for the child to stay, but Dumbledore knew his situation better. Like Severus, the headmaster knew the truth: despite the triumphant declarations in the newspapers and on street corners, they had not seen the end of the Dark Lord. It was inevitable that he would return, that he would surpass the wicked glory of his first attempt to seize power. When that day came, it was important that Harry Potter be prepared to confront and defeat him.

In more self-indulgent moments, Severus would resent the fact that his child had died while James Potter's lived. His blood would burn at the thought that Harry Potter was destined for the fate Severus had so badly wanted, that it would be James' son alone who could truly defeat the Death Eaters that he had vowed vengeance upon. Even in death, it seemed, James continued to mock Severus.

"I failed, Jane," Severus whispered through the shadows of the catacombs. He traced his fingertips longingly over the engraving of her name on the tomb. "I tried to make things right… but a _child_ succeeded where I could not – Potter's child, at that."

Severus shook his head in a mixture of sadness and disgust. Days had passed, and he was still grappling with the cruelty of it all. He was slowly regaining his strength, at least, and Madam Pomfrey had finally permitted him to take short walks around the castle and grounds. He didn't venture far, only to the catacombs or the headmaster's office. Often times, this was enough to fatigue him, and upon a well-intentioned scolding from Madam Pomfrey, he'd be forced to return to the secluded Slytherin chambers Dumbledore had allotted for his use.

It was that night that Severus found out about his father. He'd been tired of seeing the same headlines – such titles as "You-Know-Who Vanquished by Miracle Baby" and "Wizarding World Hails Boy Who Lived a Hero" – and he would have gladly tossed _The Evening Prophet_ into the fire had a smaller article in the lower left corner of the front page not caught his eye. "Ministry Official Arrested on Charges of Dark Magic," it read. Beside it was a picture of a familiar scowling man with a hooked nose and icy black eyes being led out of the Ministry by Aurors. Severus blinked once in disbelief and then, barely breathing, began to read the article.

_Darius Snape, Assistant Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic and a member of the Wizengamot, was arrested last night in his offices pending an investigation into his use of Dark magic._

_According to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Mr. Snape is accused of supporting You-Know-Who and is charged with 15 murders, over 50 counts of practising Dark Arts, leaking confidential Ministry information to You-Know-Who, and being instrumental in the attack on the Ministry earlier this week._

"_We've been suspicious of Mr. Snape for years but have only just now been able to prove any direct link between him and You-Know-Who," said Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

_Mr. Snape was arrested following a nervous breakdown in the Ministry the morning after You-Know-Who's much-talked about encounter with The Boy Who Lived. Eye witnesses saw Mr. Snape vandalising Ministry property while repeatedly screaming that "the Dark Lord will return and smite those who stand against him!"_

"_He's gone mad – absolutely, raving mad!" said one witness, who refused to give her name. It is an opinion shared by this reporter as well._

_Mr. Snape will stand before the Wizengamot for a public hearing tomorrow._

Severus stared at the article a long while. Lucius Malfoy had told him his first year at Hogwarts that his father was raising suspicions in the Ministry. Now, the truth regarding Darius' loyalties had been revealed. It didn't really surprise Severus that his father had been exposed at last. It didn't upset him, make him feel smug, or even bring him a twinge of relief. Instead, he felt nothing. The years of abuse and torment had made him numb to his father, had forced him to shut the older Snape out. Darius didn't deserve to evoke any feeling in him, Severus decided coldly. He lost the right to command his son's respect and affection the moment he first reached out to hit him.

Just because he was apathetic to Darius' fate, however, did not mean that he wasn't curious about it. As it had in his childhood, Severus' inquisitiveness got the better of him and, despite his pride and the protests of Madam Pomfrey, he found himself making his way to the Ministry of Magic the following afternoon. Severus had balked at the familiarity of the courtroom when he entered it. That great, chained chair in the center of the room and the hovering benches of the Wizengamot above were only too familiar to him. This, he realised, was Courtroom Ten – the same courtroom in which his mother had been sentenced to Azkaban fourteen years ago. As Severus slipped into a seat in the back of the crowded room, the memories of that day – of Bartemius Crouch's callousness and of Circe Snape's tears – washed over him in a wave of hot horror. Eerie, it was, that Darius' future should be determined in precisely the same fashion that his wife's had been.

"They say 'e's gonna get the Dementor's Kiss," the rather decrepit-looking wizard seated beside Severus wheezed excitedly to him.

Repulsed by the sour breath and tattered robes of the man next to him, Severus recoiled slightly. "Perhaps he deserves it," he replied icily before turning to face the front of the courtroom.

Before them, the hearing had already begun. Crouch was staring ominously down on Darius, eyes bulging and tone curt. "And even now, with dementors waiting outside the courtroom to escort you back to Azkaban, you insist you acted of your own free will, Mr. Snape?"

Darius sat straight up in his chair haughtily, the chains around his wrists clanking in loud confirmation of his ambivalence. "I make no excuses for my actions," he replied. "I only regret that in prison, there will be no more Muggles and Mudbloods for me to kill."

There was a chorus of appalled gasps and murmurings throughout the courtroom, and a furious flush rose in Crouch's face as he tried to restore order. "So you make no pretense of remorse for your actions then?" he demanded.

Darius glowered. "I will _not_ renounce my master, if that's what you're asking me to do," he sneered. "I'm not so easy to waver in my loyalties under the threat of Azkaban like some of my fellow Death Eaters have been," he sneered. "I'm proud to count myself amongst the Dark Lord's most faithful – the Lestranges and the Malfoys and my son –"

At the mention of his name, Severus' heart stilled its thumping in his chest. He had already flirted with the boundaries of the law, and he was uncertain what consequences his father's exposure of his ties to the Death Eaters would have. His release from Azkaban had been difficult for Dumbledore to achieve, and he doubted the Wizengamot would be so forgiving in the future. It was only when he saw the icy grin coating Crouch's face that Severus eased back in his seat.

"The Malfoys, you say?" Crouch said with a snort. "Romulus and Lucius Malfoy have both been cleared by this court. They are fine members of the wizarding community who fell victim to the Imperious Curse." He paused then and leaned forward to relish the disgruntlement on Darius' face. "And as for your son… I assure you that Severus Snape is no Death Eater."

Darius looked as though he had just swallowed a flagon of armadillo bile. His entire face puckered into a confused, angry knot, and when he spoke, flecks of spittle flew from his mouth. "You're wrong – my son _is_ a Death Eater! I raised him for it – groomed him for it!" he insisted, twisting wildly in his seat like a caged animal. "I saw him take the Dark Mark myself!"

Crouch clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Severus Snape's wife and child were killed by Death Eaters," he explained condescendingly, as if he was speaking to someone slow or very young, "and he turned spy for us at great risk to his own life."

Severus had never seen his father look crestfallen before, and yet that was exactly what Darius Snape was. His face blanched, and he fell suddenly quiet. His mouth worked slowly, opening, closing, opening again, as he tried to comprehend the greatest disappointment of his life: his son had betrayed him, had betrayed the cause he'd been raised to believe in. "No… No, that can't be so… I trusted him!" Darius murmured dazedly. He looked up at Wizengamot, then out across at the crowd. "I trusted him!" he repeated, this time in a rabid howl.

He was still screaming moments later when Crouch ordered the guards to drag him out of the courtroom, out to the dementors who would silence him with a Kiss. Darius thrashed against the cords that bound him, spewed profanity at the crowds as he passed through the aisles of the courtroom, and, when he finally spotted Severus by the exit, his eyes narrowed to shrewd slits of disdain.

"Traitor, eh?" he sneered at his son, referring to the fact that Severus had been a spy. "Who would have thought that, despite it all, my son would have turned out so… _decent_." He spat the word as though it was an insult, as though decency was the last thing he expected Severus to possess after how he tried to raise him.

"Don't call me your son," Severus corrected him indignantly. "I stopped being that long ago. All we have in common is a name."

Darius bared his teeth. "You'll never be one of them, you know," he hissed with a nod towards the Wizengamot. "You're too much like me."

"I will _never_ be like you, Darius," seethed Severus, his voice so dangerously low he could scarcely be heard.

But even as Severus said the words, they knew they were a lie. He may have chosen a slightly different path, but when it came down to it, he was exactly like his father – from the crooked nose and bitter disposition to the penchant for Dark Arts and ruined family. These similarities had not escaped Darius' notice, either, and his lips curled into that horrible, wicked grin Severus remembered seeing so often as a child.

"Pleasant to the last, my son," he laughed coldly as the guards pushed him forward.

And Severus paled, feeling strangely as though Darius had defeated him in the end. He stood, dazed and drowning and staring after Darius, as the courtroom emptied around him. He only moved when he felt a hand resting on his shoulder.

"Mr. Snape, a word, please?" said someone behind him. The voice was rich and lazy, and as Severus turned to face the speaker, he was not surprised to see the face of Lucius Malfoy before him.

For a moment, Lucius didn't speak. He only stared at him with those aloof grey eyes, surveying him with the exactness that he had years ago, when he was Head Boy and Severus was a mere first-year student at Hogwarts. Severus didn't dare to breathe as the aristocrat evaluated him. He had just been publicly exposed as a spy, and Lucius, despite having persuaded the Ministry otherwise, was as ardent a Death Eater as ever. Severus expected to be greeted with hostility, threatened with Cruciatus or even death for having betrayed the Dark Lord. What he did not expect was the grin of approval slowly tipping up the corners of Lucius' lips.

"Well done, Mr. Snape," Lucius said slickly, slipping his hand into Severus' in a firm handshake, "pretending to turn traitor. Fooling Dumbledore could not have been an easy task. I commend you."

Shaking Lucius' hand, Severus was astonished. If he was not mistaken, it seemed as though Lucius assumed that Severus had deceived the Ministry with promises of espionage as a means of self-preservation – that he'd claimed to be a turncoat much like several other captured Death Eaters had recanted their support of the Dark Lord or had made deals with the Ministry to avoid Azkaban. Lucius was, Severus realised, too blinded by his own pureblood prejudice to believe a confirmed Death Eater such as Severus capable of truly turning his back on their cause. The hook-nosed young man could have laughed aloud at the thought of what an impractical, delusional fool Lucius Malfoy was to presume such a thing, but he exhaled slowly with relief that he was not about to be threatened instead.

"We all do what we must to survive," Severus replied coolly, taking advantage of Lucius' assumption. He paused for a moment and raised an eyebrow knowingly before adding, "Including feigning the Imperious Curse, I suppose."

Lucius' smile broadened, and he laughed as though he and Severus had just shared a very private, very amusing joke. "Indeed," he said, "indeed." Pushing back his shoulders and thrusting his nose snootily in the air, he turned on his heel then and left the courtroom.

Even as he watched the older wizard leave, Severus knew he hadn't seen the last of Lucius Malfoy.

* * *

"Have you given much thought to your future, Severus?"

The hook-nosed young man looked up at the headmaster over the carpet bag. He'd accumulated only a few possessions – mainly some books and a change of robes – during his short stay at Hogwarts, and now that Madam Pomfrey had given him a clean bill of health, packing would not take him long. Farewells were never Severus' forte, and he'd have been just as happy to slip out of the castle without another word, but Dumbledore had insisted on stopping by before he left.

"Not really," Severus replied after a moment's hesitation. Over the past few months, he had thought about very little except destroying the Death Eaters and trying to stay alive while doing so. Now that the Dark Lord had been forced to retreat, the future stretched out like a blank, bleak abyss. Severus couldn't begin to imagine what he would do three days from now, let alone three months or three years ahead.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled warmly. "I understand," he said with a sympathetic nod. "So much has changed, and we have all had much to consider lately." He paused to hand Severus a pair of socks. "While you do your considering, though, I would be quite pleased if you would entertain the idea of staying at Hogwarts."

Severus looked up from the bag, socks still in hand. "Stay?" he asked skeptically, his habit of suspicion getting the better of him.

"If you are willing, of course," Dumbledore replied. "As you may be aware, we have two openings for professors – one for Defense Against the Dark Arts and one for Potions – and I would be honoured if you would apply for one of them. This school could greatly benefit from the wisdom and talents of a wizard such as yourself."

Teaching. If while a student in these walls a mere three years ago, anyone had ever suggested to Severus that he might someday return as a professor, he would have scoffed and said it was impossible. There were the odd hours, the insufferable staff meetings, the room after room of whining, disrespectful, snot-nosed children – not to mention Severus' own abundance of personality flaws that made him incompatible for the job – his lack of patience the least among them. That Dumbledore, knowing him as well as he did, would even propose such a thing to him seemed incomprehensible.

"Ever since Professor Viridian retired to write his books, we've had a discouragingly difficult time keeping a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," the headmaster clarified upon seeing the younger wizard's reluctance. "Sadly, our most recent professor has just been escorted to Azkaban as a Death Eater. And, as you've noted yourself, this school lacks a competent Potions master."

Severus sighed, recalling the morning after Jane had died, when he'd sneered at the Sleeping Draught the headmaster had given him. "I have nothing but respect for Professor Cauderon," he said in a rare moment of pseudo-apology. "Perhaps his ingredients weren't fresh or he'd allowed one of his less-competent apprentices to have a go at the Draught."

The headmaster shook his head sadly. "Professor Cauderon, I'm afraid, did not make that potion, Severus," he explained softly. "Just after you left Hogwarts, he had an accident – a colleague of his did, rather. I'm sad to say that he lost his eyesight when the cauldron exploded. He insisted he wanted to retire anyway, and we do have him come back periodically to lecture our N.E.W.T.-level students, but we have not yet been able to find someone to fill his position permanently."

Severus looked away and fell oddly quiet. He owed so much of his success at Hogwarts to Professor Cauderon, and to say that he, hardened as he had become over the years, was not affected by this news would have been a lie. There were so many things he could have said about his former professor – how he had been, in many ways, more of a father to him than Darius Snape had been – how much Severus appreciated that the man was one of the few faculty members not duped by James Potter's charm – how, if it wasn't for Cauderon, he never would have married Jane or had the opportunity to work with Arsenius Jigger. When Severus opened his mouth to speak, though, he couldn't bring himself to admit such sentimentalities.

"Professor Cauderon was a truly great Potions master," he said instead.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. Then, as seemed to be his habit directly before burdening Severus with something weighty, he peered over the rims of his spectacles. "He always expected great things from you, Severus. I'm sure it would please him immensely for you to become a professor here."

"It would," Severus admitted grudgingly. There was, after all, no denying this. Nor was their any denying that Severus was exhausted and that he felt lost and more than a little lonely. Jane and their baby were dead, and the idea of returning to their cottage – to sleep in their bed without Jane, to see that pink bunnied monstrosity of a would-be nursery – was unappealing at best. What's more, Arsenius Jigger had nearly finished the first edition of his book, and considering that Severus had been exposed as a Death Eater, he knew it would be difficult for him to find employment elsewhere. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, there seemed few better options for him than to come to Hogwarts.

In truth, there was also a certain appeal to teaching. Already, Severus could see himself pacing the Defense Against the Dark Arts classrooms. He would be ardent; he'd be determined. Not only would he be able to prove himself adept at the only subject he'd unsuccessfully attempted N.E.W.T.s in, but – more importantly – he would arm the students with the knowledge and skills to protect themselves. He would prepare them for the Dark Lord's eventual return and educate them so that they didn't choose the destructive path he had. It would be in this way that Severus could restore some semblance of meaning to his life, that he would continue to work against the Dark magic that had destroyed him.

"You will apply then?"

"I suppose I could," Severus replied, although even as he spoke he thought it quite possible he might live to regret it.

A warm smile parted the headmaster's lips. "Excellent! Minerva will be delighted when I tell her we finally have a viable candidate for the Potions position."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Potions?"

"Well, yes, Severus," Dumbledore explained patiently. "It's what your formal training is in."

"But… the Defense Against the Dark Arts position?" Severus was greatly deflated now. Undoubtedly the headmaster had a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he should teach Potions, but the fact remained that, considering his vigilance against the Dark Lord, he was certainly well qualified to teach defensive magic as well. "Thanks to Potter, I may not have N.E.W.T.-level certification, but I had top marks in the subject nonetheless. I know Dark arts – I've _lived_ them – and I've defeated them in my own life."

The headmaster shook his head slowly. "And that, Severus, is precisely why I cannot permit you to teach it," he replied calmly. Dumbledore was so patient sometimes it was maddening. "The Dark Arts were too great a temptation for you once. I should not like to be responsible for tempting you with them again."

Severus' eyes flickered darkly at the headmaster's implications, and it took great restraint on his behalf not to scowl or snap. "That is simply why I must do this," he explained in gentle protest. "Because I have seen the power of the Dark arts, and I know how it feels to be overcome by them. It is my way of atoning for my mistakes. You can trust me, headmaster. You have my word."

It was clear, however, that Dumbledore had already made up his mind. "Perhaps someday, Severus, but not yet," he said softly but firmly. "Not yet."

Severus glowered but did not challenge the older wizard further. He couldn't say he'd always seen eye-to-eye with Albus Dumbledore, but he had to admit he respected the man, and he was grateful for everything he had done for him.

As always, Dumbledore took great amusement in the way Severus, despite his manners, was always secretly seething just below the surface. "Shall I have some tea brought from the kitchens while you prepare your curriculum vitae?" he asked, unable to help grinning.

"Tea," Severus said through clenched teeth, "would be lovely."

* * *

It was better than Azkaban, Severus supposed, although that wasn't really saying much. Of course, if Gilderoy Lockhart didn't stop melting cauldrons, he wasn't so certain he wouldn't end up in prison after all. How that dunce was ever accepted into N.E.W.T.-level Potions was beyond him. The boy still couldn't tell the difference between bubotuber puss and Bundimun secretion, and Severus had reason to believe he had convinced Hortense Jorkins to write his paper on the properties of lacewing flies with false promises of an afternoon at Madam Puddifoot's.

Today, it had been shampoo. Despite how Lockhart had tried to hide it when Severus peered into his cauldron, it was quite clear that the boy was _not_ brewing an Invincibility Draft. For one thing, the liquid was a sickeningly purple color; for another, it was emitting a similarly coloured steam that smelled distinctly like –

"Lilacs, Lockhart?" Severus sneered, his nostrils flaring as he leaned over the furiously bubbling substance.

"Yes, sir," he replied brightly. Lockhart was the only student Severus would ever have who remained undaunted by his disposition; he was simply too self-absorbed to care much for what others thought of him. "It's for the hair product line I'm trying to develop."

Severus doubted it was possible for him to have rolled his eyes towards the dungeon ceilings any higher. Looking at the wavy perfection of Lockhart's golden curls, he should have suspected the boy was up to something ridiculous like this. "Perhaps, Mr. Lockhart," he said sharply, "you are so dense that when class lists were handed out at the beginning of the school year, you mistook this course for an independent study in Potions. Therefore, let me take this opportunity to inform you that – it – is – _not_. While you are in my class, you will do _my_ assignments, not your own. Ten points from Huff—"

It was then that the cauldron boiled over, spewing purple lava into the air and over the desks. There had been the obligatory trips to the infirmary for burns and similar wounds as well as some snickering about how maybe Professor Snape would have benefited from some of Lockhart's shampoo, but in the end, they had survived. Dumbledore had even chuckled about the matter when Severus told him about it that evening over tea and sherbet lemons.

Certainly there would be better days for the Severus, and there would be worse; certainly there would be better students in his classes, and there would be worse. The years would pass, one melding into another. The students would come and go in their usual fashion: shattering flasks or blowing up cauldrons and almost always overtly loathing the Potions master who called them dunderheads when they made a mistake and assigned painfully long research essays over holidays so they wouldn't.

Every so often, though, a particularly inquisitive student would stumble upon the well-hidden catacombs of Hogwarts. And every so often, such students would be so enthralled by the scene that, instead of doing their research on asphodel or wormwood, they'd take the time to read the elegantly scripted names on the square, bronze doors sealing the tombs. One tomb in particular always caught their attention, the one labeled _Jane Snape and Child, Martyrs_. They'd stagger back in disbelief, finding it hard to imagine that the severe, stern, sallow-skinned and unkempt-haired man they'd come to know as their Potions master could ever have had a wife.

The students knew better than to ask him, but a part of them always wondered about what had happened, about this evidence of hardship in the Potions master's past. The next day in class or in the halls, they'd search for some hint of sadness or anger in his cold dark eyes, some mark of the tragedies that evidently riddled his past. Some students, if they searched long enough, would indeed find these things hidden deep within the man who goaded them about their imperfect potions, and although they could still never bring themselves to quite like him, they'd find a new respect for him, a new understanding for the man named Severus Snape.


End file.
